


Hic Sunt Dracones

by ched



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Secrets, Slash, UST, Veela Draco, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ched/pseuds/ched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the war, The Trio return to Hogwarts as eight years. But everything is not as simple as it sounds... </p>
<p>A story in which Harry is still experiencing strange dreams, Malfoy is charged with helping Hagrid care for creatures, Hermione is curious, and Ron tags along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Hic sunt dracones" -- Here there are dragons

Eight year wasn’t shaping up to be a good year, Harry thought sullenly at lunch.

Between Slughorn’s favouritism reaching new heights, seeing his own name mentioned in almost every paper he tried to read, and having Ginny seemingly attached to him at the hip, Harry now had to avoid flocks of thirteen-year-old girls asking for his autograph (and God knows what else) in the corridors.

The war was over, but one thing remained the same: Harry still hated his fame.

Didn’t people realise they could spend their time doing better things than sending him foods of all kinds and worshipping letters? Oh, and not to mention the marriage proposals from witches he’d never met... Harry appreciated the gesture, but it was getting a bit too much. Four months had passed since the end of the war, and the hero worship wasn’t ceasing. Who could blame him for becoming a little irritated?

Not for the first time, Harry asked himself why he had returned to Hogwarts instead of starting an Auror’s career. He should have expected this. He shouldn’t have listened to Hermione’s preaching. Harry could still hear the unspoken _I-know-what’s-best-for-you_ when Hermione had said, “It’s going to be our last year at Hogwarts – give yourself a chance to enjoy it. You’ve said it yourself, Hogwarts is your home. Just let yourself be one of the students for once, not a hero.”

Harry slumped in his seat.

What did Hermione know, anyway? She didn’t get it. Nobody got it. He scowled at his mashed potatoes and continued to whack it with a fork.

He was just so frustrated... What were people still expecting of him? Harry wasn’t the Chosen One, at least not anymore. His job as the Boy-Who-Lived was done. He had the right to be just another student and live his life for himself.

Across from him, Ron and Hermione seemed to be playing footie under the table. Harry was very happy that they finally got together, but he suddenly lost his appetite. He put his plate away.

Strangely, Ginny wasn’t sitting beside him today. Harry felt oddly void of her presence. Looking around the Great Hall, he noticed that all Gryffindor seventh years were absent. He assumed they were probably held back in class... whatever class Ginny was having now. He hadn’t really tried to learn Ginny’s timetable, but he assumed some professors probably liked to delay their students, especially before lunch break. Snape used to do it frequently...

Harry sighed. Across the table, Ron pecked Hermione on the lips. Hermione blushed and smacked Ron’s arm. Harry found it in himself to smile at them.

 

 

 

Late in the evening on Tuesday, the Gryffindor common room was very nearly desolate.

A small group of fifth years (who appeared to have already been assigned a tough Astrology project) gave up at half past nine, and three gossiping girls from third year relocated to the dormitories. Ron had gone to sleep early citing tiredness from a long day, while some time later Seamus said he had “better things to do at night than sit around and talk”. Nobody asked what he meant.

Hermione said nothing as she ascended the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, however when Ginny’s back was turned, she winked at Harry and even gave him a rather mischievous smile. Harry suddenly felt anxious.

“Seems we’re finally alone,” said Ginny playfully, sitting beside him on the couch. “I thought they’d never leave!”

“Uh, yeah... Listen, Ginny, maybe I should –”

“ _Harry_.” Harry closed his mouth, and Ginny shook her head at him. “Relax, Harry, will you? I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not going to tease you about those girls from first year again... Although you’ve got to admit the song they wrote for you was quite ingenious!”

Harry groaned, slightly more at ease. “Merlin, Gin, spare me already!... First year girls are terrifying!”

They shared a quiet laugh. Harry let himself relax. But then Ginny cleared her throat. “Yeah... Like I said, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused, biting her bottom lip in what Harry knew was a gesture of uncertainty. “Harry... Look, I thought we could do something today... tonight. I mean, everyone else is already asleep – and even if someone was coming, we’re in a dark corner, so they wouldn’t see us. And we could cast that spell of yours, _Muffliato_ , so we wouldn’t be heard either... I mean, so yeah, if you want to do something tonight... then I’d like that. Do you?”

There was an air of insecurity about her that took Harry by surprise. Usually Ginny was the bold, confident one. She was the one who had initiated their first kiss, and the one who had fervently insisted that they should continue their relationship after the war. Taking in Ginny’s flushed cheeks and fidgeting hands, Harry thought that this was the most vulnerable he had ever seen her.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected Ginny to suggest sex. It wasn’t a surprise that she finally asked, but Harry still didn’t quite know how to answer.

He found himself reaching out to put a strand of Ginny’s long hair behind her ear. “What did you want to do?” he asked stupidly, stalling.

“Oh, you know... Snog a bit, make out...” She smiled at him coyly. “Maybe more. It was so hectic at home, we didn’t have any time for ourselves... And when there was a moment to spare, Mum was always suddenly there, or Ron, or... someone else. You know how it was.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “I think Molly was purposely trying to keep as apart.”

“Just like the summer before! I can’t believe Mum sometimes...”

“Yeah...”

“Yeah... So... Do you want to... do anything or...?”

Harry swallowed and adjusted his glasses. “Yeah, sure. We can snog...”

She just looked so hopeful... he couldn’t have refused her. And maybe, thought Harry, it would actually work out.

“I’m glad you’re here, Harry,” Ginny whispered, brushing her lips against his. “I’m glad you didn’t go to Auror training this year. It feels like we’ve been apart for ages already.”

She shifted on the couch and Harry mirrored her position, bringing a leg under himself so he could face her properly. Ginny put one hand on his neck and rested the other one on his thigh. Their faces were inches apart and Harry could smell mint on her breath. He wondered if his breath also smelled like toothbrush, or like the garlic soup he’d had earlier for dinner.

“I’m talking too much,” said Ginny wryly, and Harry realised he’d been staring. He wanted to say that no, he didn’t mind her talking, but Ginny was already pressing her lips to his and putting her tongue in his mouth. Harry willed himself to relax again. Maybe Ginny was right, after all. Maybe it was time to take a step forward...

Kissing Ginny was okay. She was passionate and dedicated, and he appreciated that she paid so much attention to what he liked or disliked. Even though he felt that she used a little too much tongue at times, Harry could sit there and kiss her for a long time. But then, he felt her hand sliding higher up his thigh, and the anxiety came back.

Ginny hadn’t been lying when she said it was hectic at The Burrow after the Final Battle. Having got back together in July, Harry and Ginny had barely exchanged kisses and some affectionate touches. He remembered very well that in most of those instances, it had been, once again, Ginny who took the initiative, and he was even more aware that his less temperamental nature was only partly at fault.

At the moment, Ginny was clearly becoming more eager, pressing her breasts against his chest and starting to unbutton his shirt. She was practically sitting in his lap, touching him and snogging... and Harry felt nothing. Or, actually, he was beginning to feel a little nauseous. What if she realised he wasn’t at all aroused? He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But her hand was at his crotch now, and she pressed down... Harry couldn’t do it.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked breathily when he pulled away and gently dislodged her from his lap. “Harry, why did you stop?”

“Why – _why did I stop_?” repeated Harry, now a little angry. “You know why I stopped, you felt that I’m not even...!”

“Well, yeah, but –”

“It wasn’t even the first time, remember, that time in the broom closet... I just can’t – it’s never... I don’t know why...” He swallowed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

Sighing, Ginny took his other hand in hers and squeezed. “Harry, come on, calm down – it’s probably because you were nervous. That happens... Let me help you relax, I can make you feel good...”

“No, Ginny – it’s not that...”

“Not what? You weren’t nervous? Then why—”

“ _No_ , I – I don’t know. I just can’t do it anymore, Gin. It’s not your fault, it’s me who... I’m sorry.”

“Can’t do what? Why exactly are you sorry? Talk to me, Harry! What are you saying...?”

Harry took a deep breath and looked at her earnestly. “I’m saying - I'm saying that maybe we should stop going out. I – I mean, you’re kind, and beautiful, and a great friend... But... We’re not really working out, Gin...”

Ginny’s eyes were starting to water. She blinked rapidly a few times. “But... Harry, I lo–”

“Me too!” Harry cut in quickly. “I love you, Ginny, I do, I just... I don't know, not in that way, I guess... I tried, but - you’re my friend...”

“Then why did you keep... you were leading me on...”

“I know. I – I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Gin, you don’t deserve this... I don’t know what to say.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence, listening to the fire crackling in the fireplace. Harry definitely hadn’t expected this evening to turn out so dreadfully bad.

Then Ginny said something that made the conversation even worse.

“You’re gay, Harry, aren’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not, I...” They stared at each other. Harry looked away first. “I don’t know...”

Ginny nodded and roughly wiped her eyes. “I knew it,” she whispered. “You never seemed excited to do anything but kiss, and you don’t even like to look at my breasts.” When Harry turned to her with wide eyes, she snorted without much humour. “I’m not stupid, Harry. I notice things.”

“Ginny, I’m so sorry...”

“Not your fault, I suppose,” mumbled Ginny. “Though I wish you had told me earlier instead of... Anyway, I have to go. I’m tired...”

“Ginny...”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Goodnight, Harry.”

Ginny left, but Harry didn’t move for a long time.

 

 

As a way to help the returning students recover in the aftermath of the war, Headmistress McGonagall decided that everybody had to go through an obligatory check-up by Madame Pomfrey.

Harry, who barely a day following the Battle of Hogwarts had been carted off to St Mungo’s for examination, didn’t personally think he needed any further medical assessment. However, he knew there were some students (the younger ones in particular) who were still reliving those events. He knew it would be a long time before Hogwarts, and the Wizarding Britain on the whole, fully recuperate. Although Harry had got through relatively healthy, he was still unable to eat a full meal without feeling like he would throw up and his nights were haunted by nightmares.

Harry had put it off for as long as he could, but the check-up was mandatory. For that reason, on the fourteenth of September, which was the last day of the time designated by Professor McGonagall, Harry left the Gryffindor common room and dragged himself to the infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey clucked her tongue when he shuffled into the room. “Well, it’s about time, Potter. Why didn’t you come to see me sooner? You’re one of the last students left to be examined.”

“Uh, I was just..."

“Oh, no matter, forget I asked,” said Madam Pomfrey as she waved her wand at one of the beds, causing the white sheet atop it to straighten itself. “You children are all the same... Probably thought you’re perfectly well and decided you don’t need any treatment, am I right?”

Looking away, Harry fidgeted with his sleeve. “Er...”

Madam Pomfrey eyed him with disapproval. “Well, at least you’re finally here, so let’s not waste any more time. Go on, sit on the bed, Potter, and take off your robes and shoes.”

As Harry walked over to the nearest bed and disrobed, Madam Pomfrey closed the curtains around the bed with her wand.

“How are you feeling? Do you suffer from nausea, migraine, stomach aches, or any other aches?”

Harry shrugged, putting his robe beside him. “Not really. I feel fine.”

Madam Pomfrey continued to swish her wand, this time in Harry’s general direction. Harry supposed the strange, colourful markings that kept appearing around his body were meant to let the matron diagnose him.

“Any sprains the healers at St Mungo’s failed to notice, or injuries they paid special attention to? Oozing cuts? Bad scarring? Swelling?”

“Er, no, not really.”

“Nonetheless, I’d like you to take off your shirt. I _am_ aware that you like to conceal your injuries, don’t think I’m not... Go on, no need to be shy.”

Harry was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when a pale, orange-coloured aura enveloped him. “What does this orange colour mean?” he asked.

“That you are quite underweight. Five feet six, and not even eight stone... Sadly, you’re one of many students whose metabolism has been affected by the recent happenings. Then again, you’ve always been too thin... How are your eating and sleeping habits, Potter?”

“Okay, I reckon,” said Harry. Madam Pomfrey looked at him in a way that was rather terrifying. “...Maybe I should eat a little more,” he admitted with a sheepish shrug. “And I have nightmares sometimes, but I haven’t got trouble falling asleep.”

“You should definitely gain a few pounds. You don’t necessarily have to force yourself to eat a big dinner, but make sure your breakfast is fulfilling and healthy. Eat fruit between the meals... It would also be a good idea to have your friends know you’ve got an eating disorder... their support may really help.”

“Yeah, Hermione is already grilling me about it all the time...”

“As she should... Oh, this looks nasty..." Madam Pomfrey was talking about the oval-shaped scar he had got during the encounter with Nagini in Bathilda Bagshot's house. Harry remembered perfectly the moment the Salazar's locket seared his skin just over his heart. "I'm assuming they weren't able to remove this scar at St Mungo's?" the matron asked.

Harry nodded his head. "The Healer said it's impossible to do away with a scar of this sort."

"And I'm afraid they were telling the truth..." admitted Madam Pomfrey. "Only a truly horrific amount of Dark magic could have caused this... And it is by far too late for scar removal spells... No potion in this world would work, either..."

"Oh, that's fine, really," said Harry. "I'm just glad I don't have anything on my forehead anymore..."

Giving him one last scrutinising look, Madam Pomfrey finally hid her wand back in her robes. “You may put your clothes back on. Wait here for a moment, though, I’m going to give you some Potion for Dreamless Sleep for the nightmares... It won’t rid you of them, but hopefully by the time you run out of one bottle, your sleep will be more peaceful. If not, come to me and I will think of something else.”

“Of course... Thank you,” said Harry gratefully. Now that he was here, he regretted not having come to Madam Pomfrey sooner – if he had, it would have probably saved him several sleepless nights.

As the matron strode off towards her office, Harry sat down on the bed and buttoned up his shirt, lost in thoughts. He nearly shot out of his skin when the door to the infirmary burst open and Draco Malfoy entered, looking sullen.

“Oh, it’s you,” Malfoy muttered upon seeing Harry. He had stopped in his tracks. “So let’s hear it, then – what ails you this time, Potter?”

Malfoy had a wide box full of what looked like small, green golf balls in his hands. Harry suppressed his curiosity and didn’t ask him what it was.

“Nothing,” he said instead. “Mandatory check-up. Not that it’s any of your business, Malfoy.”

“Whatever. Where’s Pomfrey?”

Harry rolled his eyes at the demand, but before he could say anything, the matron swept back into the infirmary.

“I’m here, Malfoy, and it’s _Madam_ Pomfrey to you. What is it you wanted?”

Not seeming chastised, Malfoy jerked his chin at the box he was holding. “Hagrid told me to bring you this. It’s –”

“Bowtruckle eggs, of course...” The matron swished her wand at the eggs, and a bluish glow surrounded them. “Yes, yes, very good... Perfect for the Calming Draught, Professor Slughorn should be pleased...” Madam Pomfrey continued murmuring as her gaze slid over to one of the beds with curtains closed. “The first years especially still haven’t recovered from the war. Poor children... All that bloodshed, the aggression against Muggleborns... and now against the young Slytherins... Good old Hagrid, if it wasn’t for his Bowtruckles, I would have to wait weeks before St Mungo’s could sent some of their reserves...”

Standing in the middle of the room, Malfoy looked impatient. “Yeah, well, so where should I drop this? In your office or...?”

“ _Drop_ it?” repeated Madam Pomfrey in a shrilly voice. “Heavens forbid! Bowtruckle eggs are very delicate, as you must very well know by now. Place them on that shelf, _carefully_.”

Malfoy put the box on the tall shelf Madam Pomfrey pointed at, and he dusted off his hands. Harry wondered why he hadn’t just levitated the box instead of physically carrying it.

The matron was still shaking her head in a critical fashion when she said, “When you see Hagrid again, do ask him if he could collect some armadillo bile, too, Malfoy. Professor Slughorn will need it to brew more Pepper Up potion... there seems to be a flu outbreak among Ravenclaw third years. At this time of the year, too...”

To Harry’s surprise, instead of protesting, Malfoy merely shrugged and nodded. “If that’s all...” he said, already turning away to leave.

“Yes, yes, you’re free... Be more careful if you’re going back to the wyverns, though... I don’t want to see you here again with mangled fingers. Devil Birds, indeed...”

Despite Malfoy abruptly turning his head away, Harry noticed that his pale face pinked. “Yeah, yeah, whatever... interfering harpy,” muttered Malfoy as he stalked out.

Madam Pomfrey either hadn’t heard the insult, or pretended not to have heard. “Very defensive boy, that one.” She tutted before turning her gaze to Harry. “Especially when you are involved, Potter.”

Harry looked away from the door that had closed behind Malfoy. “He’s a git when anyone’s involved. What are wyverns?”

“Oh, Hagrid’s newly acquired pets,” said Madam Pomfrey with a dark expression. “I _might_ overlook the fact that it’s a _dragon_ _hybrid_ we’re talking about, except Hagrid has got them untrained! Let him introduce the beasts to children and we can only wait for an accident to happen. What is Minerva thinking?” the matron grumbled to herself while she examined the Bowtruckle eggs Malfoy had brought. Then she apparently remembered Harry was still there. “What are you waiting for, Potter? Shoo! Go eat a decent meal instead of loitering here.”

“Er, you were supposed to give me some Dreamless Sleep potion, m’am... For the nightmares...”

Madam Pomfrey blinked at him before she realised she’d been holding the small bottle in her hand this whole time. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?”

Harry left the infirmary feeling somewhat lighter and more at peace.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bookmarking/commenting/reading!

 

On Thursday morning, Harry woke up feeling peculiarly well-rested. He lay on his back for a while, trying in vain to recollect his dream.

Then he remembered: he’d taken a swallow of Dreamless Sleep the night before. Blindly, Harry grabbed for his glasses that were placed on the nightstand, put them on, and cast _Tempus_ to check the time. It was seven thirty which meant that breakfast had just started, and one and a half hours remained until his first class.

Harry got out slowly from under the covers and took a moment to stretch his arms above his head.

Only Neville seemed to be up already as his bed was neatly done (thanks to the house elves, Harry knew) and his shoes weren’t anywhere to be seen. The curtains around Ron’s and Seamus’ beds, on the other hand, were still closed; this wasn’t a surprise considering that most Gryffindors rarely got out of bed before eight. Over the years, Harry himself had frequently missed breakfast because he’d had to go straight to class to avoid being tardy.

There was one more bed in Gryffindor eighth year boys’ dormitory – this bed would belong to Dean Thomas if the dark-skinned boy was here to claim it. Having asked Seamus earlier, Harry knew that Dean had decided to pass up this last year at Hogwarts in order to start working as an independent painter.

Casting a final glance at his timetable, Harry packed his bag with necessary schoolbooks and exited the dormitory.

On his way out of the Gryffindor common room, which was expectedly void of students, his gaze involuntarily went to the couch he’d shared with Ginny two nights before. He looked away quickly – it wasn’t really something he wanted to think about.

In the Great Hall, the enticing smell of food had his stomach growling. The dishes were laid out on the four long House tables, from piles of sausages, to rashers of bacon, to scrambled eggs in large bowls, to cornflakes, and steaming porridge. About one-third of the student body were already present, mostly from the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Houses. Pretending not to notice that his entrance had caused a hush, Harry made his way over to Neville who he’d spotted sitting alone at the Gryffindor table.

“Hullo, Harry,” said Neville once Harry sat opposite him. Neville had barely spared him a glance though, so fervently was he stuffing his mouth with food.

“Hey, Neville, what’s the rush? Don’t you have a free period now?” Harry asked him curiously – Neville didn’t take Advanced Transfiguration which was the Gryffindor eighth-years’ first class of the day.

Neville nodded eagerly. “Yeah, but –” he swallowed his mouthful of porridge, “– I’ve got to go to the greenhouses. Professor Sprout said she wants me to be her apprentice this term... Can you believe it, Harry? Me! I’m rather hoping it’ll be longer than just one term...”

“But that’s great, Neville! Well done – if anyone deserves it, it’s you!” Neville blushed at the praise, and Harry hefted a sausage onto his plate. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you could do an apprenticeship at Hogwarts,” he admitted.

“Yeah, I didn’t know, either,” said Neville. “But apparently, professors sometimes offer it to seventh-years and graduates who want to go into teaching... usually it’s for Herbology, COMC, or Potions. Ginny told me that her brother Charlie was once offered apprenticeship in COMC, but he refused – went to work with dragons, instead... Me, though – I really want to be a teacher. According to Professor McGonagall, I’ve got to obtain at least three N.E.W.T.s to teach here, at Hogwarts, which isn’t so bad, I don’t think...”

Harry remembered that during the Death Eaters’ reign of Hogwarts, it was Neville (alongside Ginny and Luna Lovegood) who had led Dumbledore’s Army. Knowing that, Harry wasn’t very surprised at Neville’s newly developed leadership qualities and passion for teaching.

“So, what do you do in this apprenticeship, anyway?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m just starting today, so, er,  I’m not completely sure, either... I’ve got second year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws now, and then the Gryffindor-Slytherin group right after...” Around them, more and more students were bustling about, talking noisily. Neville started a bit. “Oh, blimey, what time is it? I’ve got to run! See you later, Harry!” he called as he ran off.

Harry was waving him goodbye, when he spotted Ron in the gaggle of students entering the Great Hall. He raised his arm higher in order to get his friend’s attention, though Ron was already heading his way.

“Mate, you’re up early,” said Ron with an accusing undertone. He took the seat Neville had just vacated. “You’re not turning into Hermione, are you? She wakes up at, like, half six!”

“I’m not turning into Hermione,” countered Harry. “How do you even know at what time Hermione wakes up? Er, never mind... Where is she, anyway?”

“That’s just it! I haven’t got a clue. I barely even saw her yesterday.”

Since Hermione had frequently disappeared like this in the past (usually to raid the library) Harry wasn’t overly concerned. Evidently, neither was Ron who for the next several minutes scarcely raised his head from his breakfast.

Because of Ron’s insatiable appetite, he and Harry were among the last students to leave the Great Hall that morning. In the end, Hermione hadn’t made an appearance at breakfast – Harry and Ron headed to Transfiguration without her.

“I bet she’s already there,” said Ron, paying more attention to his abandoned plate than to Hermione. “Went without breakfast, ‘cause she thought she wouldn’t make it to class on time or something...”

However, when they got to Transfiguration, Hermione was still nowhere to be seen.

Even though eighth year students from all four Houses took Advanced courses together, only thirteen (of those who had returned to Hogwarts) had managed to continue Transfiguration. Aside from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, there was Parvati Patil from Gryffindor, five Ravenclaws, and three Hufflepuffs. In the corner, Harry spotted Malfoy leaning back in his chair, looking out the window – he was the only Slytherin in the class.

Harry and Ron took their usual seats near the back of the classroom. They barely had time to take out their books before Professor McGonagall swept inside, telling them to be quiet and beginning the lesson.

As it had turned out, there were now two Transfiguration professors: Professor McGonagall who taught students above O.W.L level, and Professor Septima Vector who took over the younger years. Apart from the fact that she was also an Arithmancy teacher, Harry didn’t know much about Professor Vector – only that, according to Hermione, she was strict and excelled at both her own subject and Transfiguration.

About ten minutes into the lesson, Hermione finally turned up. She looked unkempt and a bit pale.

With merely one look Professor McGonagall silenced her profuse apologies, and then, only docking five points from Gryffindor, ordered her to sit down. Harry and Ron exchanged glances as Hermione took her seat – neither of them remembered the last time she’d come to class late.

They didn’t risk a conversation just yet, though, because as always during Professor McGonagall’s lecture, the students were so quiet that only the sound of quills scribbling on parchment could be heard. Harry and Ron finally got a chance to talk to her when the practical part of the lesson began.

“Hermione, are you alright? You look a fright!” cried Ron with his usual lack of tact.

“Thank you, Ron, I didn’t notice,” snapped Hermione, angrily turning her back to them.

Ron looked bemused as his eyes caught Harry’s, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

For the next few minutes, they worked in uncomfortable silence, trying to turn sugar bowls into cats, and the other way round. Even Hermione, in her clearly sleep-deprived state, was having trouble and only managed to give her sugar bowl a cat tail.  

Remarkably, it was Ron who seemed to make the biggest breakthrough – after a particularly vicious swish of Ron’s wand, his sugar bowl grew fluffy brown fur and developed three legs. Thusly appendaged, the bowl was immediately spurred into action, jumping off from the desk and taking off. With a quiet swearword, Ron raced after it.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Hermione spoke, “Harry, I talked to Ginny.”

In response Harry nearly dropped his wand. “Oh,” he breathed as he regained his hold on it. “So, er, how is she?”

“Rather devastated, actually,” sighed Hermione. She waited for a moment before speaking again. “Harry, look at me.” He did, after a second’s pause. “Ginny told me everything. I know what happened between you two... and that you’re –” he widened his eyes in a warning, “– well, that you don’t like her that way,” she finished lamely.

Harry deflated a little as he looked away – he’d been rather hoping Ginny hadn’t shared that bit with Hermione. He cast a sweeping glance around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, but then he cast a _Muffliato_ , just in case.

“I’m not angry with you or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking, by the way,” whispered Hermione, moving a little closer and pretending to be focusing on her sugar bowl. “But Ginny took it quite hard, you know... Came to my dormitory at three in the morning and cried for some hours...”

Harry realised it was probably the reason Hermione looked like she hadn’t slept a wink – she’d been up all night, consoling Ginny. Inexplicably, he felt a spark of anger. 

“If you’re trying to guilt me into getting back with –”

“Oh, Harry, no, of course I’m not,” interjected Hermione. “Stop being silly – you asked me how she was, and I told you. Okay? I’m concerned about you both.”

Harry nodded, though with some hesitation. “Yeah... Sorry, I’m being a prat.” Above Hermione’s shoulder, he noticed Ron approaching, and quickly added, “Listen, Hermione... Can you not tell anyone? About me and stuff... Please, Hermione, not even Ron...”

She squeezed his forearm. “Sure, Harry,” she said just as Ron reached their table with his furry sugar bowl in his arms.

After that conversation, Hermione’s foul mood seemed to have improved. Before the end of the lesson, she even transfigured her sugar bowl into an exemplary cat (if a bit fat) earning Gryffindor the five points she had lost earlier.

Although Harry had made little progress with his own sugar bowl, he felt a little relieved; Hermione _knew_ , and she didn’t mind! She didn’t look at him differently, or called him names! Harry hadn’t really believed she would do any of those things, but the fear had been there nonetheless. He’d grown up in a household where homosexuality was something of a taboo subject, and when it was mentioned, it was regarded as a disgusting disease. Uncle Vernon had even made some threatening remarks to Harry on several occasions, making it clear that _nancy-boys_ were not welcome in his house.

While Harry wasn’t exactly sure what his preferences were yet, he was quite certain they didn’t involve Ginny. It was a bit sad, but if there had been any sexual attraction he felt towards her, it had died early on in their relationship.

Transfiguration was followed by Charms on the third floor, which meant that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to clamber up the stairs. Harry had taken to walk as fast as he could during these fifteen-minute breaks between classes, and he frequently looked over his shoulder. The reason for this was simple: it was during the breaks that he was most often harassed by admirers.

Upon reaching the Charms corridor, Harry realised in his rush to escape the attention he’d lost Ron and Hermione. Moreover, it appeared he couldn’t avoid the spotlight completely. There, in front of the Charms classroom, a group of young girls were already gazing in his direction, giggling and whispering among themselves.

“Hi, Harry,” one of the girls said in a flirtatious tone once he was near. “I heard you broke up with Ginny Weasley – is that true?”

Harry sighed with some resignation. “Sorry, I’ve got to get to class, so...”

“Because if it is, I could help you out... I’ve got experience. I know how to use my mouth and body, if you catch my drift...”

Pausing in mid-step, Harry turned to look at the girl incredulously. She seemed to be no older than fifteen years old; had she seriously just propositioned him? Judging by the coy, suggestive smile on her face, she had. Her friends didn’t appear to find anything strange about that, either.

“Er, no, thanks,” he mumbled as he quickly walked around the girls, to the safety of the classroom.

He couldn’t believe that had just happened – did that girl have no dignity? How could she be that bold? And what had she meant by _experience_? She was probably even younger than fifteen!

Harry sat in his customary chair by the window, more than a little disturbed. Malfoy would have been in stitches if he’d witnessed that scene, Harry was just sure of it.

Thankfully, Malfoy didn’t take Advanced Charms, and therefore he was nowhere in the vicinity. As Harry stared out the window, leaning his elbow on the desk and his face on his hand, he was surprised to actually find Malfoy outside, on the grounds. His white-blond hair was unmistakable, but Harry frowned as he watched him. Was it really Malfoy out there, in dirt-stained clothes, standing beside a horse? Harry squinted, looking closer; it was Malfoy, alright. However, when Malfoy and the animal started walking, Harry noticed that it wasn’t a horse but a Thestral, and Malfoy was leading it by the reins. He leaned out in his chair to have a better view – Malfoy and the Thestral were moving out of sight, into the concealment of a dense stand of trees.

“Bloody moving staircases!” a voice exclaimed, making Harry start. He looked up at Ron and Hermione who were taking their own seats at the desk. “It dropped us off on some island of a platform, and then we had to wait ages before a different staircase picked us up!” ranted Ron.

Hermione seemed equally peeved. “Nearly came to class late,” she grumbled. In Hermione’s books, tardiness, especially twice in the same day, was evidently unacceptable. “Speaking of, it’s strange... I could swear we passed Professor Flitwick just outside the classroom. I wonder where...”

“Right here, Miss Granger, right here,” squeaked Professor Flitwick as he trotted past their desk.

While Ron’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, Hermione was so mortified she looked close to tears. Harry was too distracted to pay them much attention, though. He turned his head back to the window, trying to detect Malfoy’s bright hair behind the screen of trees. His survey went without success – Malfoy was already gone.

Settling back into his chair, Harry contemplated what he’d just seen. He was quite certain the Thestrals on the Hogwarts grounds lived in the Forbidden Forest. Why then was Malfoy walking with one outside the Forest, in plain view? Was he planning to leave the grounds on it? Harry knew it was possible as he’d done it before, along with Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and Neville. Just what was Malfoy playing at now? Harry had thought he’d changed, but obviously he was wrong. Malfoy was clearly plotting something again.

Harry was making up different reasons for which Malfoy would need a Thestral, when Hermione elbowed him in the side. “Pay attention, Harry!” she hissed at him before she went back to taking notes.

Massaging his bruised ribs, Harry decided to obey her.

For the first forty-five minutes, Professor Flitwick had them practise the non-verbal Summoning Spell they had covered in sixth year and revised last class. Nobody seemed to have much trouble with it, except for Hannah Abbott. Instead of summoning a roll of parchment, as they had been instructed to do, Hannah’s non-verbal casting kept extracting books from the stack on which Professor Flitwick was perched.

When Professor Flitwick emerged for the third time after toppling out of sight, he squeaked that everybody, more or less, mastered the spell. (Hannah was advised to practise more in her free time.)

The class got less exciting after that. Professor Flitwick began a lecture about the Fixing Charm, which Harry found incredibly boring. His thoughts started circling about Malfoy again, and then about the awkward situation with Ginny. He wondered if Ginny had told anyone besides Hermione about their split-up. He hoped she at least hadn’t blabbed _why_ it had happened...

With his mind completely elsewhere, Harry didn’t notice when he’d put his head in his arms. A lazy glance towards Professor Flitwick told him that he was safe from being reprimanded. He sighed into his arm and let his eyes close. He felt so comfortable in his seat, with the sunlight warming his back... And Ginny – she was still his friend... How could he have thought she would betray him? There was obviously nothing to worry about... He felt so light and content...

Harry was floating. He was sailing in the air, slowly and steadily moving up and forward... And then down, and down, and Harry tightened his grip on... something before he was picked up by the wind again. He realised he was holding an open umbrella – it was keeping him up, letting him be propelled along by the wind. With a look down, Harry found he was drifting above hard ridges of a canyon, but he wasn’t afraid. He was safe, safer than he’d ever been... Another gentle breeze, and he was raised higher and higher... And what a wonderful feeling it was, to be propelled upward without doing any work, without making any decisions... He could be floating like that endlessly...

“...ry! Harry! Will you wake up already!”

“Hmmm...?” Harry mumbled as he peeled his eyes open. Someone was shaking his shoulder.  “H’mione?”

“Oh, finally!” huffed Hermione. “We’ve been trying to rouse you forever. How could you have fallen asleep in class?”

“Give him a break, Hermione,” Ron’s voice said. “It _was_ a boring lesson. I could barely stay awake myself...”

A slap was delivered to the back of Harry’s head, and he jumped up in his seat. “Ouch... What was that for, Hermione?”

She looked slightly concerned now. “Well, you looked like you would kip again, so I... Are you alright, Harry? It really was a while before you woke up...”

Taking a look around, Harry realised there was no one else in the classroom – even Professor Flitwick had left. “Yeah, yeah, ’m fine... just a nice dream, is all...”

“Ah,” said Ron with a knowing grin. “I hear you, mate – we all get those, don’t we? Eh?” And he proceeded to heartily thump Harry on the back.

“Yeah,” said Harry as he moved out of Ron’s reach. “Look, why don’t we just go to lunch? Don’t know about you two, but I’m starving.”

“Oh, are you?” chortled Ron. “That dream tire you out that much, eh?”

“Shut up, Ron, and go back to the cave you came from,” said Hermione. “Harry wasn’t having that kind of dream.”

“And how could you know that?” returned Ron. “We’re teenage boys, Hermione – come on! Actually, I bet you have dreams like that too, and you’re a girl.”

Red-faced, Hermione gaped at him in outrage. “Ron! God, you are such a... Argh!” And she stomped out of the classroom.

“What?” Ron said to Harry, looking clueless. “What did I say this time?”

“I wouldn’t know, Ron,” said Harry as he discreetly rolled his eyes. “But at least this time you noticed she’s a girl, right?”

“What d’you mean? I’ve noticed that ages ago!”

Harry just sighed, lumbering out after Hermione, with Ron following at his heels.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New installment, yay! Took longer to write, but hey, at least the chapter is longer too!

 

“Did you and my sister have a row or something?” Ron asked Harry the next day at breakfast.

“Took him three days to notice,” muttered Hermione from her seat at Harry’s other side.

“Or something,” mumbled Harry.

It was just as well, because Ron didn’t really seem to be listening.

“She looks like someone just killed her Pygmy Puff, and keeps shooting you these... glares, you know,” whispered Ron, apparently convinced he was supplying Harry with new information. His eyes narrowed, though, as he turned to inspect Harry’s face. “Actually,” he said slowly, and Harry gulped. “You two have been kind of weird for some time now. You didn’t dump my sister, did you?”

“Well...”

Sighing, Ron graciously raised a hand. “Nah, mate, you don’t have to tell me what it was about. Just tell her you’re sorry, and make up, yeah? ‘Cause if not, I’d have to beat you up, you know.”

“Er...”

“I mean, I’m her older brother, right? Just so we’re clear,” said Ron in what Harry thought was probably a warning tone. Then, he shrugged and bit into his toast. “You’re still just about the only bloke I could accept as my brother-in-law, by the way. Pass me the pumpkin juice, will you?”

“... Yeah...” Harry said as he handed Ron the jug with pumpkin juice. He looked down at his own plate, prodding at his cornflakes, and feeling guilty beyond measure.

At least the sky seemed to agree with him that this day was not going to be a good one – the bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall was dark with grey clouds.

From the corner of his eye he could see Ginny at the other side of the table, looking glum and tousled, with visible shadows under her eyes. Neville was beside her, as well as a few girls from her year, apparently trying to engage her in conversation, but not really succeeding.

This was the way Ginny had been ever since Harry had broken up with her. Occasionally, she would glance his way, but not exactly to glare as Ron had said – they were just looks of resignation. Apart from several awkward instances in which their gazes had met, both she and Harry had been avoiding each other like the plague.

Yet, Ron expected him and Ginny to get married. He expected that Harry would become _family_ – actual family, and not just a close family friend. What would he say if he knew that Harry _had,_ technically, dumped Ginny, and that there was no chance of them ever getting back together? Would he accuse Harry of stringing Ginny along? Would he be wrong?

Harry was mulling over that when he felt a hand squeeze his knee. He blinked at Hermione in question.

“Eat, Harry,” she commanded with a pointed look at his soggy cornflakes. Her hand retracted with a final pat to his knee. “And don’t worry – it will turn out alright.”

 

 

“Ron is going to kill me when he finds out,” Harry muttered dejectedly as he and Hermione claimed a worktable in the corner of the Potions classroom. Slughorn had paired them off at the beginning of the lesson, which Harry took to mean that the potion they would be making today was a difficult one.

“No, he isn’t,” countered Hermione in a patient tone. “Ron’s an idiot, but you’re his friend – he will understand. Crush the snake fangs, Harry.”

Consulting the blackboard on which Slughorn had magically written the brewing instruction, Harry put six snake fangs in his mortar and started crushing them using a pestle. They were making the Wound-cleaning potion, apparently.

“I think you should talk to Ginny first, though,” said Hermione. She dropped a porcupine quill into their cauldron, and began stirring. Harry could hear her counting the stirs under her breath.

“And what will I say to her? I’m not even sure if... I don’t know what she’s thinking,” he muttered at last. He put the pestle away. While he thought he did a fine job of crushing the fangs into a powder, Hermione picked the mortar up to examine it, anyway. Seemingly satisfied, she added the powder to the cauldron.

“You will say to her what you didn’t say the last time,” she replied simply. Stirring again, she added in a softer voice, “You can’t avoid each other forever. Ginny isn’t really cross with you... well, maybe she is, a little,” she conceded when Harry just stared at her. “But mostly, she’s just embarrassed and unsure, and – well, hurt.”

They noticed Ernie MacMillan heading their way, supposedly to fetch some ingredient from the cupboard a little ways behind their worktable, and busied themselves with the potion until he walked past. Then, Hermione continued in a whisper, “Look at it from her point of view – things seemed to be going well between you two. We all thought so, as well. Ginny was completely smitten... and suddenly, you tell her you don’t feel the same way. She was confused...”

“It wasn’t that sudden,” defended Harry, for lack of anything else to say. Under the heavy weight of Hermione’s gaze on the side of his head, he offered, “I’ll cut the ginger roots.”

“Just talk to her,” was all Hermione said in response.

With the cut ginger roots merrily boiling in the cauldron, they were instructed to leave the potion to brew for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

Harry and Hermione were soon joined by Ron, whose potion was apparently at the same stage.

“Nott is a complete plonker, I’m telling you,” he complained, only to be instantly scolded by Hermione.

“Ron!” she hissed.

“What? He is!”

She shook her head at him, looking disapproving. “Did he even do anything to you? Theodore Nott is a perfectly polite, studious boy. You’re just being a prejudiced idiot, because he’s a Slytherin.”

While Ron mumbled something about ‘arrogant and annoying, anyway’, Harry looked at Nott. The other boy was sitting at his and Ron’s current worktable, hunched over a book that wasn’t a copy of _Advanced Potions-Making_. Nott was thin and gangly, and there was always a weedy look about him, as though he’d just been cured of some malady. Aside from Malfoy, who was curiously absent today, he was the only Slytherin left in the Potions class.

“... and why are you defending him so much, anyway?” Ron was asking Hermione suspiciously, when Harry turned his attention back to them.

“Stop your train of thought right there, Ron,” ordered Hermione. She rolled her eyes before explaining, “As it happens, in the spirit of inter-house cooperation, Professor Babbling has decided to partner off each of us in Ancient Runes to a student from a rivalling House for the rest of the term. I happened to be paired with Theodore Nott. That is all – so quit with the absurd theories, Ron.”

“Fine,” said Ron, looking flustered. “But if he starts chatting you up, you’ve got to tell me. I’ll show him...”

“Ron, that’s ridiculous. He’s got no interest in me, whatsoever...”

Sighing in an aggravated manner, Harry opted to tune them out again – there was no end to Hermione and Ron’s bickering once they got started. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately) Slughorn chose that moment to appear at their worktable.

“And what have we got here?” he queried jovially, peering into Harry and Hermione’s cauldron. “Well, seems just about flawless at this stage! Excellent consistency, and a brilliant rosy colour... Oh, one thing, however... Ahh...” He nodded to himself; Hermione (who had stopped speaking in mid-sentence as soon as Slughorn showed up) was breathless with anticipation. “Yes, yes, it’s quite a shame... It appears that this Wound-cleaning potion is just a smidgen short of cut ginger roots. See, here – otherwise, the surface of the liquid would glisten with red under certain light. Ah, better luck next time, Harry, Miss Granger! Still, a very good attempt...” Patting his enormous belly, Slughorn strolled away to check on Ernie and Padma Patil’s progress.

Ron (whose presence Slughorn seemed to have just missed completely) must have sensed a change in Hermione’s mood, because he scampered off to his and Nott’s table.

When Harry turned to look at her, Hermione seemed rather peeved indeed.

“Harry! How many ginger roots did you cut?” she demanded.

“Three, just like it said on the blackboard!” he insisted. “It isn’t my fault that the roots were kind of small...”

Half an hour later, when they finished brewing the potion, Hermione was still tetchy with him. Harry was just glad he hadn’t botched their potion completely, but he felt it would be wise to stay quiet.

Slughorn seemed rather disappointed when he examined their concoction, which was something Harry had come to expect. There was no getting around it – without the Half-Blood Prince’s book, Harry was shoddy at best at Potions, and Hermione had just had to pull his weight. Despite this, Slughorn’s partiality towards him shone through. He still clearly believed Harry was a Potions prodigy, and although he couldn’t understand where the sudden incapability was coming from, he appeared to think it was just a temporary phase.

While Ron often made fun of Harry for this, Hermione just seemed even more annoyed.

She was in a right state when they exited the Potions classroom, along with the other students.

“When are you going to tell him about that stupid book?” she barked.

“Hermione—”

“I hope soon – because if you don’t tell him, I will.”

“Oh, come on,” said Ron. “Like Slughorn would believe you over Harry.”

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say, but fortunately they were interrupted before Hermione could snarl a retort.

“Harry! Hi, Harry!” a voice called from the courtyard, and they turned in that direction. It was Luna Lovegood. Although the distance between them was rather short, when Luna finally trotted up to them, she was out of breath.

“Alright there, Luna?” said Harry. They all stepped closer to the wall so as not to be trampled by the passing students.

Luna was still catching her breath, resting her hands on her knees. “Oh, yes, I’m – I’m quite well. I haven’t had this – this kind of workout in a lifetime... Makes you feel rather fresh and frisky, did you know? Hello, Ronald and Hermione.”

“It was just a few feet distance,” Ron said with some exasperation as Luna finally straightened.

She blinked her bulging eyes at him. “Yes, Ronald,” she agreed.

“Did you want something, Luna?” asked Hermione impatiently.

“Well, yes,” said Luna in her dreamy voice. “I wanted to say hi to Harry. But I suppose I’ve just done that, didn’t I? Oh, and I thought I would tell you about the Wrackspurts floating around your head, Hermione.”

For a moment, Hermione looked like she might make a sharp retort, but she held back. “I’ve got Arithmancy to go to. See you later,” she said before she spun on her heel and walked off.

“Don’t mind Hermione – I made her kind of angry earlier,” Harry felt compelled to say. Luna looked curious instead of offended, though.

“That’s okay. I did just tell her about the Wrackspurts.”  

“Is this a dead spider?” Ron’s voice was strangled as he pointed at something black and hairy dangling from Luna’s neck. Harry had noticed him eyeing her new necklace, but he had rather hoped Ron wouldn’t ask about it.

“No, it isn’t,” said Luna, now frowning a little. “It’s a Clinking Hexapie. And it isn’t dead, it’s only sleeping.”

Although Harry was almost certain it was a dead spider, he definitely didn’t feel like arguing about it with Luna. As Ron asked sceptically what Clinking Hexapies supposedly do, Harry looked about himself in search of a different topic... And he found one fairly quickly.

“Him again!” muttered Harry to himself, his attention caught by a flash of blonde hair. He walked over to stand by a pillar, from where he had a better view on the grounds near Hagrid’s hut – and sure enough, there was Malfoy, with five or six white, dragon-like creatures flying around him. The sky was getting darker; it was about to rain. “What’s he doing there?”

“Who?” Ron stepped closer, still looking a bit green. “What, you mean Malfoy?” he asked after Harry just pointed with his hand.

“Who else?”

Ron squinted into the distance. “Seems to me like he’s feeding those things, or something. See, he’s carrying a bucket – bet you there’re dead ferrets inside,” he said, smirking.

“Yeah, but – don’t you think it’s queer? Malfoy doing that? Why the devil is he doing that?”

“Well, I reckon Hagrid probably told him to...”

Harry stared at him blankly, but it was Luna who shed some light on the matter. (Harry had only vaguely noticed when she had come to stand beside him.)

“Actually, it’s because the Ministry told him to,” she told him serenely. “It’s a condition of his probation. Draco’s been made Hagrid’s assistant, so he has to help Hagrid look after the creatures. Personally, I think that’s a lovely pastime.”

“Are you joking?” Harry laughed. “Oh, he must hate this!”

“You mean, you didn’t know?” Ron was befuddled. “It was all over the papers! Me and Hermione spent half the summer taking the piss out of it!”

Harry suspected it was more along the lines of Ron taking the piss as Hermione frowned at him, but he let it slide. “Well, it’s not like I read the papers anymore. You would stop too, if every paper you took had your face plastered on it,” he commented. “Besides, you and Hermione were kind of busy most of the summer, so we didn’t really talk much, if you remember...”

After a pause, Ron shrugged somewhat guiltily, and Harry winced at himself. Great, he thought. Now he sounded like a resentful child denied of his parents attention.

Luna was there to break the uncomfortable silence. “I think he quite enjoys it,” she said placidly, and Harry realised after a second she was talking about Malfoy. He looked again; Malfoy was throwing what seemed to be chunks of meat into the air, for the dragon-looking beasts to snatch them midflight. “Otherwise, I imagine he wouldn’t keep missing classes to do this. Then again, maybe he’s affected by Wrackspurts, too. They do seem to like his company.”

Despite knowing Luna for a few years now, Harry still wasn’t sure how to deal with her eccentricity sometimes. “Yeah, he bunked off Potions today,” he conceded at last.

The possibility that Draco Malfoy might be anything but miserable didn’t seem to sit right with Ron. “Who cares what the slimeball does, anyway?” he muttered peevishly. “He can clean Hipogriff dung for the next ten lifetimes, as far as I’m concerned. Hope he gets sick of it by then.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Luna said with a smile. Ron eyed her like he’d never seen her before.

“You expect me to say nice things about _Malfoy_?” he drawled out the word as though it had an unpleasant taste. “Luna, he was Death Eater – the only thing nice about him is that he keeps bunking off, ‘cause then we don’t have to look at him as much. The bloke had you locked up in his basement for a month, for Merlin’s sake!”

“If you say so,” Luna said dreamily.

“I saw him walking with a Thestral yesterday,” remarked Harry. “I thought he was trying to sneak out on it, or something.”

“Oh, no, why would Draco want to do that?” Luna looked genuinely puzzled. She shook her blonde head. “It had to be Tenebrus. He broke his hind leg a few days ago, so Draco probably took him out for a walk. Tenebrus is an old boy now, so his healing takes more time, you see.”

Harry didn’t really see. Since when did Draco Malfoy care about creatures other than himself? As far as he knew, Malfoy had never showed aptitude for dealing with animals, either (the Buckbeak incident was ingrained in Harry’s mind). Actually, Harry was fairly sure Malfoy hadn’t even passed his Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L.

Well, it wasn’t Harry’s business if Malfoy fancied himself a wildlife connoisseur now. It was certainly an improvement over the plotting Death Eater-Malfoy of the last two years.

Wanting to clear his mind, Harry shook his head. “Do you have a free period now, Luna?” he asked.

“That’s right,” she said, before turning her misty smile on him. “Unless you wanted me to say I don’t, so that I would leave. That would be okay too, really.”

Ignoring Ron’s imploring face over Luna’s shoulder, Harry went on, “Er, no. Ron and I were going to see Neville in the greenhouses, so I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to come, too...”

“Oh, I’d love to!” Luna beamed. “I promised Neville I’d show him this Clinking Hexapie pendant, anyway. To think he didn’t believe me when I said they exist...”

 

 

Barely had they managed to hide inside Greenhouse Four, when it started pelting down with rain.

Regardless of the weather, Neville still looked excited (if a little tired) upon seeing them enter. It turned out that he’d been assisting Professor Sprout with the fourth-years today, which demanded re-acquaintance with the nasty affair that was Bubotuber pus. Not that Neville complained. In fact, it was quite the opposite, as Neville insisted with fervour that serving apprenticeship as a Herbology teacher was proving to be the most interesting time he would have in years.

They parted on friendly terms, having reminisced about the various stunts they had pulled during Dolores Umbridge’s reign of Hogwarts, and about the wicked tasks in the Triwizard Tournament. It was Harry who checked the time twenty minutes before the next class, and reminded Ron they had Transfiguration next. Luna, in a true Luna fashion, suddenly and noisily recalled she had class as well.

Since Neville still had one more Herbology lesson to supervise alongside Professor Sprout, he bid them all goodbye and stayed at the greenhouses.

Outside, it was still raining heavily.

“There’s a secret entrance by the courtyard, through the boys’ toilet,” said Ron to Harry and Luna over the noise of the downpour; Harry knew what entrance he was talking about. “I say, let’s go that way – it’ll be fastest.”

“You two go,” said Harry. “I’ve still got to get my Transfiguration book, so I’m gonna go through the Entrance Hall. Otherwise, I’ll be late for class.”

“Mate, you’ll be drenched by the time you get there,” said Ron in a unusual show of compassion.

“It’s fine, I’ll just use the Drying Charm,” replied Harry.

“Alright, see you in Transfiguration then,” Ron called before he and Luna took off towards the courtyard. Stealing himself for a long, unpleasant soak, Harry headed for the main entrance of the castle. The visibility was dreadful, and the ground soppy. Despite what he’d told Ron, Harry had a pessimistic thought that by the end of this ordeal even the most efficient Drying Charm wouldn’t save him from a flu. His feet were drenched inside his shoes.

He was climbing a slight uphill, actually grabbing at grass so as not to slide down (and cursing himself for thinking that taking this route in such weather would be a good idea) when he heard it: a shrill, ringing cry, by far louder than the pouring rain.

Harry paused, straining to listen, but no such sound came again. Still, he felt unease creep up his spine – the shriek sounded human. Was someone being hurt? Why did they not cry out again?

Without pondering this any further, Harry let himself slide down the slight slope, before landing on his feet and racing in the direction from which he thought the shriek came.

It wasn’t easy to navigate and separate sounds in heavy rain, but somehow, Harry managed it. He ended up somewhere near Hagrid’s hut (he recognised the surroundings) and stopped in his tracks upon seeing the scene several yards in front of him. There, a tall figure dressed in a black cloak was standing, seemingly being assaulted by a small flock of large, white birds – no, not birds, thought Harry. They were the dragon-like creatures he’d seen Malfoy feeding an hour back.

God, Malfoy was a prick, thought Harry. Somehow, he knew that in some way Malfoy was involved in this.

Harry broke into a run.

In spite of the raindrops on his glasses blurring his vision, he could see that one beast had seized the cloaked and hooded person’s forearm in its talons. Not slowing down, Harry watched through squinting eyes as the person threw out their arm, dislodging the creature. It instantly took flight, joining its kindred in circling above the cloaked man (for Harry was now fairly sure the silhouette wasn’t that of a woman).

In the next moment, however, another beast was swooping down. Deciding he was near enough to use magic, Harry raised his wand in mid-run, aimed, and uttered the first spell that came to his mind.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

The creature, with its legs outstretched to bear down on the man’s shoulder, was instantly knocked down. Ear-splitting shrieks erupted from above. Harry, wand trained on the four outraged beasts still soaring in the air, was now at the cloaked man’s side and he made to grab his arm, when the person whirled on him.

“Are you mad?” Draco Malfoy snarled, shoving him away. Dumbfounded, Harry lost his balance and fell to the muddy ground.

“ _Malfoy_?” he yelped. The beasts were still shrieking; Harry suddenly knew it wasn’t a person crying out earlier, but these creatures.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Potter?”

Harry scrambled back to his feet. “What do _you_ think you’re doing? I thought you were – you were –”

“I was – I was?” mocked Malfoy. “Put your wand away already, for fuck’s sake.”

Reluctantly, Harry lowered his wand from the beasts now angrily flapping their wings, however he kept watching them from the corner of his eye.

A few feet away, Malfoy was kneeling by the white, dragon-looking creature that had been hit by Harry’s spell. Slowly, the creature rose to a crouch, supporting itself on clawed wings. Malfoy held out his arm and whistled, but the beast just eyed him balefully, turned away, and rose to a wobbly flight. It soared away to a small cave close by, where it hid from sight. Malfoy ran a hand through his wet hair as he stood up; at some point, his hood had fallen off.

Harry noticed that the other four creatures seemed to have calmed down slightly at last. In fact, he thought that they now looked more curious than angry, but then Harry wasn’t an expert on creature behaviour. Two beasts had perched on a nearby tree, while the other two awkwardly landed on the ground and started crawling towards Malfoy. Harry thought of it as crawling, because these creatures (unlike dragons) had no arms – they only had clawed digits in their wings, which they used to support themselves with when they moved on the ground. Harry was reminded of a picture of a pterodactyl he’d once seen in Dudley’s atlas of dinosaurs.

Once more, Malfoy raised his arm and whistled, and this time one of the crawling beasts beat its wings and obediently flopped onto his forearm.

“What are they?” asked Harry as he warily came closer.

“Wyverns,” muttered Malfoy, petting the creature.

And wasn’t that a strange sight – Malfoy petting a creature. Harry couldn’t recall seeing him pet even his eagle owl.

Holding out his arm, like he’d just seen Malfoy do, Harry clucked his tongue a few times at the Wyvern still sitting on the ground.

Nothing happened. The Wyvern seemed to be more interested in a worm it had found lying at its feet. With a glance, Harry confirmed his suspicions that Malfoy was currently staring at him like he’d never seen anyone as idiotic.

“Er, I get it they aren’t much like owls then?” said Harry.

“No,” said Malfoy.

Harry ignored Malfoy’s insistent stare as he crouched in front of the Wyvern. He figured if he could make eye contact with the creature, then perhaps he could make it understand what he wanted it to do – and right now, he wanted it to get onto his outstretched arm so that Malfoy could stop looking at him like at a complete dimwit.

Pursuing his lips, Harry tried to whistle – and then, was abruptly jerked upright by the back of his cloak.

“Hey!” he complained, twisting around.

“You _are_ mad,” Malfoy said with some wonderment as he released his grip. “Either that, or just plain stupid beyond recognition. Do you always approach unfamiliar creatures without even knowing the first thing about them?”

“What, you mean like yourself in third year?” When Malfoy just stared uncomprehendingly, Harry clarified, “Buckbeak.”

“Oh, shut up. As you’ve just shrewdly observed, Potter, Wyverns aren’t owls. You can’t summon them whenever it strikes your fancy.”

The Wyvern perching on Malfoy’s left forearm hopped up onto his right shoulder instead. Harry thought it unfair that the creatures seemed more comfortable with a git like Malfoy than with him, but then Harry wasn’t the one feeding the beasts.  

“You seem perfectly fine summoning them whenever you like,” he ventured to say.

“Oh, well, let’s see,” said Malfoy in a scathing voice. “Maybe that’s because I’ve got this fancy little glove on to ensure my arm isn’t ripped to shreds?” He presented his left arm, and indeed he was wearing a thick-looking glove which covered his forearm up to the elbow. Nevertheless, Harry didn’t really fault himself for not noticing it before, considering his mind had been occupied with more important issues, like keeping an eye on bloodthirsty, winged beasts.

The weather wasn’t helping much, either, he thought with a glance skyward. While at least it wasn’t pouring buckets anymore, the rain hadn’t stopped yet. The visibility was still poor.

“I suppose,” he replied to Malfoy at last. “Those are some menacing-looking claws,” he added, pointing at the Wyvern’s talons.

Malfoy just grunted. He patted the creature’s white, scaly neck.

“So, er, does he have a name?” asked Harry.

“It’s a female, Potter. Fulgora.”

Taken aback, Harry blinked. He hadn’t really expected Malfoy to tell him. “How about that one?” He indicated the Wyvern he’d tried to approach earlier; it seemed to have discovered that more worms were hiding in the damp soil.

In response, Malfoy whistled at the beast, arm held out, but to no avail. The Wyvern kept clumsily clawing at the ground. “Come here, Cybele, you idiot.” Looking exasperated, he whistled again, and finally the creature obeyed. It settled on Malfoy’s gloved forearm, still flapping its wings lightly. The Wyvern perched on Malfoy’s other shoulder, Fulgora, cried softly like a bird; Harry supposed it was some sort of a greeting.

“Is Cybele a female, too?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Unsatisfied with that reply, Harry pressed, “Are they all females?”

“No,” Malfoy said, scowling at him. “The one you hexed, Orcus, is a male.” Harry felt himself flush guiltily. Malfoy turned his attention to the Wyverns perched side by side on a tree branch a little ways away. “So is the one on the left – his name’s Virtus. Beside him is Mefitis – she’s the oldest in the flock.”

“How do you differentiate between them?” asked Harry as he slid his gaze from one creature to the other, scrunching his brows in thought. No matter how much he squinted, the four Wyverns just looked the same to him: eagle-sized, white and scaly, with albino red eyes and leathery wings. He said as much to Malfoy, “I mean, they all look practically the same.”

After several seconds passed and he still received no response, he glanced at Malfoy. “What?” he asked when he found Malfoy just staring at him.

Malfoy shook his head. “Nothing, Potter,” he said. “They don’t look the same. If you look closer, you’ll see the patterns on the scales are different. Besides, the size – the males are generally larger than the females.”

“This is so strange, you lecturing me about magical creatures,” Harry blurted out.

Malfoy must have agreed with him to some extent, though, because his lip curled up unpleasantly. “Whatever. Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Potter?”

“Well...” Harry trailed off, restraining a smile. He sort of wanted to pull Malfoy into a banter with him, but then he remembered that he did have somewhere to be. “Oh, crap! Transfiguration!” He made a whining noise, which was embarrassing for the simple reason that Malfoy was there to hear it. “Professor McGonagall is gonna take points again...”

“Come late to class often, Potter?” Malfoy smirked.

“Well, at least I still come, unlike you,” retorted Harry. “What’s up with that, anyway? Moved on to _bigger and better things_ again?” he said, looking around himself to indicate Malfoy’s new status as an assistant caretaker. It was a bit of a low-blow, but he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s none of your business,” Malfoy bit out. “Now go on, Potter, run along. You’ve wasted enough of my time as it is.”

“Whatever,” said Harry. He wanted to add a cutting remark, however upon seeing Malfoy’s smirking face he decided to curb it. Obviously, Malfoy was still an arrogant prat, but at least he’d ceased preaching about Pure-blood supremacy, and mentioning Harry’s parents.

While Harry thought it was a start, he couldn’t resist having the last word in this exchange. “Prick,” he muttered as he left, too quietly for Malfoy to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, Luna knew a charm that would protect them from getting soaked, but she didn’t mention it, because she thought it would be more fun to run in the rain :D


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was dreaming.

It was raining heavily, and thunder was rumbling nonstop.

Harry started walking. Everything around him was shades of grey. Wherever he looked, there were trees surrounding him, tall and thin, blocking the sky from view, yet casting dark shadows on the ground. He was in some sort of a forest – the Forbidden Forest, Harry realised instantly. What was he doing here? There were only trees around, and they all looked the same. Harry walked some more, but it was without purpose. He felt so lonely.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning hit one of the trees, and it went down. Harry felt fear grip his heart; what if the lightning struck him, too? There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. What was he going to do? He was drenched and shivering. He had to protect himself from the storm... and then, he remembered – he was carrying an umbrella. Harry opened the umbrella to shield himself from the rain and lightning, and he sighed with relief. He felt more secure now.

He continued walking, when something clamped on his shoulder. No! He had to hold on to the umbrella. Someone was calling his name, but Harry didn’t want to hear it. Clenching the umbrella with both hands, he dug his heels into the ground. He had to wait for the danger to pass...

“... Harry...! C’mon, mate... just a dream...”

Slowly, as Harry came to, more sounds started to permeate his mind. He became aware that he was lying on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. He opened his eyes, and immediately closed them again, mumbling, “Ron, the light.”

“Oh, sorry, mate,” said Ron, lowering his wand a bit – the tip of it was alight with the _Lumos_ spell. “You okay now?”

“Yeah...” Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, tossing the pillow away. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“Nah, at least you weren’t yelling anything,” Ron said awkwardly. He stood up from his crouch by Harry’s bed. “Another nightmare? I thought Pomfrey gave you some Dreamless Sleep.”

“Yeah, I... I guess I forgot to take it,” said Harry, stifling a yawn. “Go to sleep, Ron. You too, Neville,” he added, when he saw Neville’s groggy face blinking at them.

Eventually, the three of them settled back into their beds, and Ron muttered _Nox_ to douse the light. Seamus gave a loud snore. Harry, his body slicked with sweat, reached for the pillow he’d chucked away, brought it back to his chest, and stared at the curtains surrounding his four-poster bed. This time, he remembered to take a swallow of the Dreamless Sleep potion he kept in his bedside table before he went to sleep again.

 

It was Saturday, so Harry let himself sleep in. He woke up at ten o’clock, to a dreary sky, stuffy nose, and a headache. His prediction the day before about catching a cold evidently proved to be true.

The day before, after he’d left Malfoy to his own devices, Harry reached the main entrance to the castle in a state that would have Filch spitting fire at the sight. He’d been soaked to the bone, dripping mud and raindrops all over the floor, with strands of grass tangled in his hair. Quickly, so as not to risk Filch accusing him of defacing the castle, Harry had cast a _Tergeo_ on himself, and then used the same spell to siphon off the puddles of water and mud he’d brought inside. Having also cast a _Scourgify_ for a good measure, Harry finally headed for his dormitory.

Not only had he been sneezing like a banshee, he’d also been shaking like a leaf the whole way there. Even a Warming Charm hadn’t been of help. Due to feeling so miserable, not to mention the fact that he’d been fairly sure he’d already missed most of Transfiguration, Harry had decided against going to class. Instead, he’d collapsed on his bed the moment his feet dragged him into the dormitory, and he fell into slumber in a matter of minutes.

Harry massaged his temples as he did quick math in his head; apparently, he’d been asleep for about twenty hours. He vaguely remembered Neville waking him up some time in the evening to ask if everything was alright. Harry had shrugged him off. He’d just wanted to sleep.  

All the thinking was making his head ache even more now, so Harry decided it was time to get up and get on with life.

In the common room, he found Ron and Hermione curled up together on one of the couches. The instant they saw Harry, Hermione launched into an interrogation. “Harry! How are you feeling? Ron said you’ve slept through dinner – have you caught a cold? Oh, here, we’ve brought you breakfast...”

Harry took the proffered plate, and he flopped down into an armchair. “Thags, ‘Ermione, you’re the bez. And yeah, bud I feel beder now.”

“You’re talking through your nose,” Hermione pointed out. Harry sneezed. “Right, that’s it – when you’re done eating, we’re going to Madam Pomfrey for a Pepper Up Potion. And don’t even try to argue with me,” she added with a glare. When Harry turned to Ron for help, he only received a sympathetic shrug in response.

And so it was that after Harry nibbled on his food enough to warrant Hermione’s satisfaction, he trudged down to the Hospital Wing. With some difficulty he’d managed to convince Hermione he was capable of going by himself. While Harry appreciated her concern, he knew she wanted to spend more time alone with Ron, and Harry didn’t fancy being the proverbial fifth wheel. And besides, he wasn’t dying – it was just a cold.

For the rest of the day, Harry was feeling moody for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. The Pepper Up Potion helped with his stuffy nose and the headache, but his sneezing kept manifesting in the most inopportune moments - first, when he’d been about to drink from his goblet at lunch and ended up dowsed with pumpkin juice, and then in the common room, when Ginny had tripped over the corner of a rug and fell into Neville’s arms. Ginny and Neville had been locked in an embrace, gazing at one another soulfully, when Harry sneezed.

It got awkward. Once Ginny disentangled herself from Neville in a record time, the three of them proceeded to mumble apologies until Harry fled.

He wasn’t really jealous of Ginny. It wasn’t his business if she and Neville seemed to become rather cosy with one another. She wasn’t Harry's girlfriend anymore. Harry just wished it would take her a little longer to get over him. As Harry thought this, he winced, flinging himself onto his bed.

_He_ was the one who had left her. _He_ was responsible for their break-up. Ginny had all the right to move on whenever she wanted, and Harry wasn’t privileged to feel offended. Did he want her to keep pining over him? After a second’s consideration, Harry decided that he didn’t. He didn’t want to see her miserable, and the notion of Ginny still having feelings for him was just making him feel uncomfortable. More than anything, Harry didn’t want her to resent him forever.

After they had split up, he’d experienced a feeling of liberation. He did genuinely care for Ginny, but only like a friend, and never like a lover. Much as he’d tried, he didn’t desire her. His body had never reacted to the touch of her breasts or, once, when she’d put his hand up her skirt. It was embarrassing. He hadn’t been able to please her, despite knowing she wanted him to, on several occasions.

He recognised that Ginny was a beautiful girl – he just didn’t think of her on a sexual level. She felt too delicate, too slight, too supple. Ginny’s body was too curvy, and her hands too small. Her physique was so unfamiliar that, sometimes, Harry had been afraid he would hurt her if he hugged her too tightly.

Images of Ginny were entirely different to the images Harry’s imagination provided whilst he was in the privacy of his four-poster bed, or the shower. Instead of full breasts and soft thighs, he thought of taut muscles and hard ridges. He pictured Oliver Wood’s bare torso after Quidditch practice, or how muscular Charlie Weasley’s back looked even through a shirt. Sometimes, he thought of firm, confident hands touching his body as he was touching himself. Other times, it was a solid chest sliding up against his own, while a thigh more powerful than Ginny’s was placed between his legs. Occasionally, he wanked off to the idea of another person standing behind him, watching. Some of his fantasies were more explicit than others, but not one of them involved Ginny.

By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was completely immersed in his fantasies. His hand was making its way towards the front of his trousers, when Ron burst into the dormitory.

“There you are, mate!” Ron exclaimed triumphantly. “What’re you doing? Better report to Hermione – she started to think you’ve fainted in the corridor somewhere. You still feeling ropey?”

“Er, no, not really,” said Harry.

“Well, then, come on!” urged Ron. “Dinner soon, did you forget? I can’t wait for the Yorkshire pudding today...”

 

Sunday came and went.

At lunch, Harry was treated to the sight of Ginny sitting close to Neville, giggling at whatever story he was telling her. Harry wasn’t as affected by that scene as he’d thought he might be. He had already established with himself that Ginny was free to pursue new relationships, and Harry was in no place to stop her. He didn’t _want_ to stop her, either. The only feeling he came close to feeling when he looked at her flirting with Neville was awkwardness, because he didn’t want Ginny to think he was jealous of her, or some such.

Harry’s idea of dealing with the situation was to ignore it. Ron, however, had different notions.

“Blimey, looks like Neville’s moving quick,” he said to Harry, frowning in Ginny and Neville’s direction. “If you don’t make up with my sister soon, he’s gonna snatch her away from you, mate. Want me to tell him off for you?”

Harry assured him that no, thanks, he could handle it, and then quickly changed the topic to Quidditch.

To tell the truth, this year, Quidditch was quite a sore subject for all Hogwarts players and fans. Since the Quidditch pitch was still in the process of restoration after being burnt down in the Battle of Hogwarts, matches couldn’t be held on it. It was rumoured that the reconstruction might take until the end of the term.

To Hermione’s indignation, after the summer, charged with rebuilding the Quidditch pitch were the house-elves. While the house-elves didn’t seem to mind the additional workload, Hermione had had to be constantly dissuaded from starting another campaign toward their well-being. Although she had finally relented, she could still be heard muttering about enslavement whenever a house-elf walked past.

Harry had heard that the reconstruction of the Quidditch pitch had been delayed in favour of rebuilding the castle, which took the whole summer to be finished. Although a magical construction company had been hired by Professor McGonagall, the Headmistress resigned from their services once the school year began. There had been one other group designated to aid in restoring Hogwarts – they were an assembly of wizards and witches selected by the Ministry to carry out community service. Harry knew Draco Malfoy had been a part of that group.

He wasn’t sure how the other two Malfoys were faring in the aftermath of the war, but he believed Draco’s punishment was fair, all things considered. Harry had spoken for him and his mother at their trials, which Shacklebolt (who was the new Minister) obviously took into account before passing judgement.

For association with the Death Eaters, Narcissa Malfoy had been placed under house arrest for a year. Draco’s list of charges had been quite a bit longer, and Harry couldn’t remember the precise extent of his probation. He recalled feeling pleased at the final verdict, though – it involved community service, finishing school and acquiring N.E.W.T.s, as well as an earlier curfew, among other things. Malfoy sure had a busy year ahead of him, thought Harry.

When he looked back on the trial, Harry recalled Shacklebolt telling Malfoy something about his hours of community service interfering with schoolwork. At the time, Harry hadn’t thought much of it, and so he hadn’t realised what those words meant – that Malfoy would mandatorily become Hogwarts’ new caretaker. Harry was still finding this amusing.

The third Malfoy, Lucius, was sentenced to five years in Azkaban. Harry thought that was still a rather generous punishment – after all, Lucius Malfoy’s only redeeming point was that he had defected at literally the last moment. Harry hadn’t felt any sympathy as he watched Lucius being taken to Azkaban, especially since the Dementors no longer resided there.

At dinner the same day, Harry found himself thinking about Draco Malfoy again.

He couldn’t help it – Ron and Hermione were at that stage when they only had eyes for one another, and there was no one else around who he could chat to. Bored out of his wits, Harry let his gaze wander, until it reached the edge of the Slytherin table. There was Malfoy, sitting with Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode. Seeing as Goyle hadn’t come back this year and Crabbe had died in the fire, Mafoy apparently made Nott and Bulstrode his new minions.

Then again, maybe not. Harry considered this. He hadn’t actually seen Nott and Bulstrode flanking Malfoy, like Crabbe and Goyle had. When he thought about it, he decided Malfoy was acting a lot like he had in sixth year. He was quiet, mainly keeping to himself, and (from what Harry could see) rarely interacting with other people. Perhaps he was feeling remorse for his past deeds, but more likely he was simply steering clear of trouble.

He may have been acting the part, but he didn’t look like the Malfoy of sixth year. He looked healthier. His skin was pale but not pasty, and somehow, his frame seemed svelte instead of thin. Actually, Harry thought Malfoy looked damn fine. Handsome even, if one was into blonds with sharp features and high cheekbones. Apparently, Harry was, if he was finding Malfoy’s looks appealing.

And that was as far as Harry let himself mull over Malfoy. He averted his eyes before anyone could notice him looking, but then he realised somebody _had_ noticed. Namely, Ginny. She turned away after a second, frowning and appearing uncertain. Harry shrugged. So far, he hadn’t been able to find a good opportunity to talk to her. Or, more to the point, he’d been putting it off. They were so awkward around one another it was painful, but then, that was also the reason Harry knew they needed to talk. They were still friends, or at least Harry hoped so. He wanted to fix this – but should he be the one to approach Ginny, or should he wait for her to do it? Was she even considering patching things up?

Harry had never understood girls. While, normally, he would go to Hermione for advice, this time he held back. A few times now he’d caught Ron sneaking glances at them whenever Harry talked to his girlfriend in private. He didn’t want to give Ron reasons to be suspicious.

 

Before he knew it, Monday was upon them.

What was worse, Harry and several other eighth years had to start the day in the cold, draughty dungeons.

“Now, now, everyone settle down!” Professor Slughorn said brightly as he entered the Potions classroom. “Everyone seated? Excellent, excellent! Today, we will be brewing the Scintillation Solution – not terribly complex to make in terms of difficulty, though fairly tedious _and_ unpredictable... Do take my advice and remember to be very watchful with this one! Now then, can anyone tell what the properties of this... But Miss Granger can, of course!”

Since Harry sat at the table in front of Hermione’s, he’d been unable to see her hand shoot into the air like a skyrocket.

“As the name suggests, the Scintillation Solution is used to momentarily increase the drinker’s intelligence, as well as enhance the senses and intuition,” intoned Hermione. “It is thought to be one of the most capricious potions created by man.”

“Absolutely right!” Slughorn said happily, and Hermione beamed. “And who can tell me what the main component in brewing... Oho, yes, Miss Granger?”

“The main component in brewing the Scintillation Solution are ground scarab beetles, sir.”

“Accurate as ever!” praised Slughorn. “And I assume you know what the reason for that is...?”

“It’s because scarab beetles, like all other animals and creatures with magical properties, retain some of their magical features even after death. When used as a potion ingredient, those features surface, altering the potion accordingly – that is why scarab beetles are so volatile,” recited Hermione. “The purpose of using ground scarab beetles in potioneering is usually to improve the drinker’s concentration, increase brain power, or boost one’s confidence. However, the properties of whole beetles are virtually opposite, meaning that an entirely different potion would be brewed if ground scarab beetles were to be replaced with whole ones.

Additionally, caution must be taken with preparing the beetles, as they are known to emit fumes while being ground. Although not very toxic, when inhaled in large doses, the fumes...”

Hermione went on and on. As he glanced to his left, Harry saw Ron staring mindlessly at Hermione's hair, spacing out. To tell the truth, Harry was feeling rather dull himself that morning. He hoped Slughorn would have them learn boring theory for the next several classes, if only to make up for the gruelling three weeks he’d granted them so far. At least they had been allowed to brew most of these ridiculously demanding potions in pairs, rather than individually.

Hermione must have finished speaking now, because Slughorn looked ecstatic. “Perfectly said, Miss Granger!” he said, to Hermione’s obvious delight. “Why, I do believe you’ve just won your house twenty points – a reward well deserved. Indeed, what Miss Granger said is true. Fortunately, in case of an overdose, countering the effects of the Scintillation Solution is much easier than brewing the potion itself, as a single sip of the Calming Draught will do the job.” Slughorn rubbed his large stomach thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see... not much else can be said for the Scintillation Solution, except that it is better drank quickly, as the taste is quite unpleasant.” He waved his wand at the blackboard, and a list of ingredients and instructions started to write itself. “Everyone, look at the board now, and read the instructions very carefully... When you’re done... well, you know what to do! Start brewing, and remember to grind the scarab beetles – unless you want to end up with a strong Dizziness Draught and a failing mark!”

The classroom broke into life as everyone set about preparing their Scintillation Solutions.

“He wasn’t joking when he said this is gonna be tedious,” Ron grumbled, inspecting the blackboard gloomily. Harry looked at it as well. Indeed, it seemed Slughorn had been serious – the whole board was covered with scribbles that were instructions and names of ingredients.

“Come on,” Harry said with a sigh. “Let’s set everything up. The sooner we get this done, the better.”

They quickly divided roles: Ron shuffled away to get the necessary ingredients, while Harry was left to incite the fire under their cauldron. All the while, Slughorn busied himself with strolling about the classroom and peeking into the cauldrons of the more enthusiastic students. Of course, Hermione (who had paired up with Padma Patil) was far ahead of everyone – she was already grinding the scarab beetles.

A minute of two later, Ron came back with the ingredients, which he dumped on the table beside their cauldron. “Here goes nothing,” he said with a yawn.

Harry looked at the blackboard once more. “Let’s see... Why don’t you crush the mistletoe berries, while I grind the ruddy beetles? Then we can mix it, and there’ll only be, like,” he paused to consult the board again, “thirteen steps to go.”

Ron shrugged and nodded, and they began preparing their potion.

“How is it that we’ve got to suffer through double Potions on Monday again, anyway?” Ron groused a moment later. “It was the same in sixth year, remember?”

“Was it?” said Harry, half-heartedly grinding the beetles in the mortar. “I say, better double Potions on Monday than Friday.”

Ron’s reply was cut off by a yelp a few tables away. Their eyes swivelled in that direction, and Ron huffed. “Those snakes. We’d all be feeling ten times better about Potions, if the Slytherins weren’t in the class. Or in any class, really.”

Of course, as N.E.W.T.-level students, they shared every class with the eight years from all four Houses. The Potions class was exceptionally unpopular, with only nine students remaining.

Harry only shrugged as he looked at the two Slytherins in the classroom. It seemed the yelp had come from Nott, who was inspecting the hem of his scorched robes. Beside him, Malfoy was shaking his head.

“Are you done with the beetles, mate?” asked Ron.

Looking away, Harry nodded and put the pestle away. “Damn, this stuff stinks,” he said, as he peeked into the mortar – the beetles in it were ground into powder.

Ron leaned in to take a cautious whiff. “I don’t smell anything,” he said, looking confused. Harry didn’t understand how Ron couldn’t have smelt it – now that he stopped grinding, the stench was impossible to miss.

Covering his nose, he said, “Maybe you’re gonna have a cold or something. C’mon, add your mistletoe berries here, and I’ll mix it.”

When Ron poured the crushed berries into the mortar, Harry cast a spell which quickly mixed the ingredients together, without anything getting outside the confines of the bowl. Then, Harry dumped the contents into the cauldron. Following the instructions on the blackboard, Ron took a ladle to stir the potion three times clockwise. The smell was gone, and the potion became olive green in colour.

“Oh, bugger,” Harry said, frowning at their concoction. “It was supposed to turn yellow.”

It was hardly the first time their potion seemed to be botched right at the start. Harry miserably hoped Slughorn wouldn’t feel like taking a stroll by their table today.

“Merlin’s holey underpants, this day’s just getting better and better,” Ron said irritably, as he rummaged through their ingredients.

“What’s wrong? Besides the obvious...” said Harry, eyeing their potion.

“We’re supposed to have eight shrivelfigs, but I’ve brought only seven.”

Harry looked at the blackboard, and then at their shrivelfigs – indeed, they needed one more in order to complete the next step. In his peripheral vision, Harry glimpsed Slughorn coming in their direction, and he made a quick decision. “I’ll go fetch it,” he said. He did not want to deal with Slughorn, when their potion was coming along so poorly.

After manoeuvring his way between the students and their cauldrons, he finally reached the closet at the back of the classroom. He opened the door and slipped in.

Inside, it was even cooler than in the dungeons in general, and light was sparse. Rubbing his arms against the biting chill, Harry walked further into the room to inspect the labels on the shelves.

To his irritation, the ingredients were not positioned in alphabetical order. In fact, Harry thought there wasn’t any order to speak of. A box containing jobberknoll feathers was placed beside a jar with pickled slugs, and silverweed could be found next to mistletoe berries. This was why Harry tended to avoid this storeroom. At least back when Snape had been the Potions Master, everything was neat and the ingredients were easy to find. Slughorn, it seemed, preferred to keep things in disarray.

Resolving to start from the bottom, Harry knelt down in front of the stand. He had a vague recollection that was where Snape used to store the shrivelfigs – perhaps, with some luck, they would still be there. Half a minute later, his search was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. Harry tensed a bit when he turned around. In the doorframe stood Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy seemed thrown by Harry’s presence, but he collected himself and closed the door. For a moment, they watched one another in silence, until Harry, still kneeling, returned to scanning the labels. He didn’t turn to face the stand fully, though; who knew what Malfoy might do once Harry’s back was turned? Harry wasn’t sure where he stood with Malfoy now, but he knew they weren’t friends. He didn’t trust Malfoy in a room without witnesses, when Harry was wandless.

The deliberate tack-tack sound of Malfoy’s shoes on the stone floor was loud in the closet, and it was becoming louder. Staring down at a jar of rat tails, Harry waited with baited breath. For some reason, he was getting excited. He wanted something to happen. When Malfoy stopped right next to him, Harry licked his lips. Was Malfoy going to try to pick a fight with him? Start a conversation?

However, Malfoy did nothing. Strangely, Harry found that irritating – if Malfoy was going to just stand there, then Harry would rather have him step away. He looked up to demand just that, but then he saw Malfoy’s attention was not even on him – he was only inspecting the shelves.

Thoroughly upset for reasons he couldn’t understand, Harry huffed and stood up. He kept staring until finally he got a reaction. Malfoy glanced at him, turned away, and then looked at him again.

“What the hell is your problem, Potter?” he demanded.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Nothing,” he said, before returning to his search for shrivelfigs. From the corner of his eye, he could see Malfoy shake his head, but he ignored it. A moment later, Malfoy seemed to have found what he had been looking for. He reached for a small, blue bottle on which the label was hidden from Harry’s view. Furtively, Harry cast a glance at where the bottle had been situated instead – the now empty spot on the shelf was labelled ‘Billywig stings’.

Harry found this odd. He didn’t remember billywig stings being needed for the potion they were making in class now.

“Stealing isn’t very polite, you know,” he told Malfoy. “Does Slughorn know you’re taking those?”

“Mind your own business,” said Malfoy as he shrugged a few billywig stings into a vial he’d extracted from his robes. “Maybe I need them for class – how would you know, anyway? You’re hopeless at Potions.”

“Maybe I’m not as hopeless as you think,” returned Harry.

“Doubtful.”

Harry scowled. “I think you’re plotting something again,” he lied, just to be aggravating. “I’ll find out what you plan to do with those billywig stings.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said with a roll of his eyes. “Not that it’s a new thing, but you’re embarrassing yourself. Sod off.” He put away the bottle of billywig stings. Then, he reached towards the second-highest shelf, from where he drew out a jar of, apparently, frog brains.

Harry said nothing, because something else captured his attention. For there, on the highest shelf, right above the empty spot left by frog brains, was a carton box named ‘Shrivelfigs’.

Relieved, Harry stood on his toes, reached his arm out, and tried to grab it, but to no avail – he only seized air. Holding onto the edge of a shelf, he tried to reach higher, and this time his fingertips grazed the box. As he strained to bring the box closer to the edge, the shelves rattled dangerously. Frowning, Harry took a step back. It was no good, he thought – he wouldn’t be able to get the box down without splaying the contents onto the floor, or taking the whole stand down as well.

Why had he left his wand in the classroom, was the question Harry was asking himself. It was just his luck. Ron was probably becoming impatient, but there was nothing for it. Harry would have to return to the classroom, get his wand, and come back here to – 

A long-fingered hand appeared in Harry’s peripheral vision – Malfoy was putting the jar of frog brains back. Harry suddenly realised he didn’t have to fetch his wand at all. Malfoy, who was taller, could get the box for him.

“Hey,” he said, stopping Malfoy from leaving. “Look, I need a shrivelfig, but the box is too high up. And I don’t have my wand on me, so I can’t get it down...” he trailed off, looking at Malfoy significantly and hoping he would take the hint and help.

But Malfoy was clearly intending to make this difficult. “So?” was all he said.

Harry gritted his teeth. “Well, I don’t really feel like going back to the classroom to fetch my wand, just to come back here for one bloody shrivelfig. You’re taller, so you’ll probably be able to reach the box. So if you could just...” He made a vague motion with his hand.

“If I could just...?”

It occurred to Harry that Malfoy was probably enjoying this – he was fairly sure he’d seen the corner of his mouth twitch. Fed up, Harry snapped, “Well, will you take it down for me, or are you waiting for me to get on my knees and beg?”

That was, apparently, an amusing thing to say. Malfoy wasn’t holding back his smirk anymore, and one of his eyebrows lifted.

“Shut up,” Harry said, even though Malfoy hadn’t even opened his mouth. “You wish I would do that,” he added.

He didn’t know why he’d just said that. He had a vague thought he should feel embarrassed now, but that didn’t happen. He was feeling strangely bold instead.

Malfoy looked at him with both eyebrows raised. “Spare me,” he said, sneering. “Keep your fantasies to yourself, Potter.”

In response, Harry just angled his head up to glance at the shelf, and then pointedly looked back at Malfoy. He didn’t feel self-conscious, and he wanted Malfoy to know that.

Finally, Malfoy moved. The dim-lit closet was once again filled with the sound of Malfoy’s measured steps as he approached the stand.

He stopped in front of Harry and paused, evidently expecting him to step away, but Harry didn’t budge. He didn’t want to. Malfoy would either have to ask him to move, or just reach above Harry to grab the box.

Malfoy did the latter. He wasn’t smirking anymore. His arm stretched above Harry’s shoulder and his grey eyes narrowed. All the while, Harry didn’t drop his gaze. He could taste adrenaline in his mouth, and his heart was beating like a hammer against his ribcage. He wanted Malfoy to do something, he wanted to provoke him – into doing what, Harry didn’t know, but the drive was there. He felt like he could do anything, and get away with anything.

They were inches apart, their chests almost touching. Malfoy had stilled, his hand lingering up on the shelf, and his body close. Harry knew his movements were deliberately slow. With his back against the stand and his head tilted back awkwardly to maintain the eye contact in such proximity, Harry felt completely crowded, but it was good. It was what he wanted. He wasn’t sure what else he wanted, aside from Malfoy reacting in one way or another, but he was confident he could get it.

Malfoy licked his lips. “What are you playing at?” he asked in a low voice. Harry’s eyes had instinctively lowered to follow the movement of his mouth. He instantly glanced up again, but somehow, he couldn’t will himself to hold Malfoy’s gaze anymore.

“Nothing,” he breathed. For some reason, it seemed he was unable to keep his eyes on one area on Malfoy’s face for more than two seconds. He was feeling more dizzy the longer they stood there. His heartbeat was going positively crazy. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so self-assured. He started to wonder about himself; what was he doing? What had he been thinking?

Malfoy swallowed, and like a moth to flame Harry’s attention was drawn to his Adam’s apple. Even with his head no longer uncomfortably tipped back, Harry couldn’t gather his thoughts. His legs felt like jelly, and his breathing was too fast. He could smell Malfoy’s aftershave.

Harry closed his eyes. Now bereft of his irrational self-confidence, he found himself at a loss. Malfoy was a dick, he knew this. Harry also knew he shouldn’t react to his closeness this way, but he was so turned on he couldn’t think clearly. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to achieve – or maybe it was. He couldn’t remember anymore. It was like he’d just come out of a trance. He’d been acting like a loon.

“Are you going to take it, or stand there for all eternity?”

“What?” croaked Harry, eyes flying open. Malfoy was holding the box of shrivelfigs out to him. Harry hadn’t even realised Malfoy had stepped away, but suddenly the potion storeroom seemed to be several degrees colder than half a minute earlier.

Forcing himself into action, Harry jumped forward and snatched the box from Mafoy. “Thanks,” he bit out sharply.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and glinted with something like amusement. “Yeah, no problem,” he drawled, turning to leave. “Next time you might want to pay more attention in class, though – so you don’t get yourself drugged again, you know.”

Before Harry could process this, Malfoy was already out the door. Harry was left in silence, the box of shrivelfigs held awkwardly in both hands. He looked down at the shrivelfigs, then back at the door, and then he let his eyelids close. He breathed out shakily.

What in Merlin’s name had just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing: I adore a short Harry. The end.


	5. Chapter 5

As he left the potion ingredients cupboard after the awkward incident with Malfoy, Harry donned a mask of perfect composure.

Back at their worktable, Ron marvelled aloud at the time it had taken Harry to collect one single ingredient.

“What were you, wanking in there or something? Anyways, uh, look –” Ron gestured at their cauldron helplessly. “I, erm, had to carry on without you. Slughorn said one more minute of waiting, and the whole potion would be wasted...”

The concoction looked like mud inside the cauldron, and it was gurgling loudly. It was obviously unsalvageable.

“Brewed this with our seven shrivelfigs,” explained Ron.

Harry wanted to throw up his hands. “Well, you didn’t exactly help matters, did you?” he growled, frustrated.

Sneaking a look at Malfoy, Harry caught him turn away with a smirk. Scowling, he tossed the shrivelfig he had obtained into his and Ron’s concoction, where it fell with a small plash, to never surface again.

The remainder of the lesson dragged on agonizingly. Moreover, at the end of it, Slughorn even found time to shake his head disappointedly at their ruined Scintillation Solution, which didn’t make Harry feel any better about himself.

When the students started chattering happily as they poured out of the classroom, Harry decided he needed some time to cool off. Further human interaction sounded rather like a chore at the moment.

Once he made an excuse to his friends, he didn’t stay long enough to hear a response. He went to climb up the staircase, away from the masses of students heading down to lunch, and for once, nobody tried to stop him to attempt a conversation. Harry knew it was most likely a testament to the obviousness of his sullen mood, though he certainly wasn’t complaining about the lack of attention.

Left in peace, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander. It wasn’t very pleasant, as they involuntarily wandered to Malfoy.

He remembered the draughtiness in the potions storage room, and the low light. He recalled Malfoy looming over him, unwelcome and overbearing, as Harry stood there with a feeling of absurd omnipotence. He thought of his own strange behaviour, and how he had obviously not been thinking straight, wanting to provoke Malfoy into doing something that wasn’t fighting. Malfoy had suggested Harry’s brain was addled by some sort of drug, and frankly, Harry couldn’t see any other explanation for what had happened.

Still, it was rather mortifying. How could Malfoy, even with the prospect of Harry’s humiliation in mind, allow all of that to ensue? Had he not felt absolutely disgusted to be so close to Harry without being violent? Did he know Harry had been – and there was no getting around this fact – aroused?

Dear Merlin, the thought that Malfoy could taunt him about this was unbearable. Even his drug-addled state wasn’t enough to justify _that_ reaction.

Almost without consulting his brain, Harry’s legs led him to the owlery, where owls constituted his only company. As he stepped further into the room, some of the birds on the lower perches hooted expectantly, their large eyes blinking sleepily and wings outstretching. Instinctively, Harry searched around his pockets for owl treats, but just as he’d expected, he didn’t find any. He shrugged slightly at the birds, before turning towards the glassless windows.

There was not much to do in the owlery. Hedwig was obviously not there, and the other owls went back to sleep once it became clear Harry had neither treats for them, nor a letter to send. Still, Harry decided to stay for a while longer to stare at the grey clouds passing overhead. There was a sense of refreshment in feeling cold air whipping across his cheeks, and mussing his hair.

As he lounged in the owlery and continued to think about Malfoy, his embarrassment gave way to curiousness. If he had, indeed, been drugged, when did it happen? How? _What_ was the drug?

Harry knew his best chances of finding out lay with Hermione. On that account, on his way to the common room, he made a detour to the library, where Hermione was most likely to be located. It took him a little over three minutes to find her at one of the tables, behind numerous stacks of books.

“Hey, Hermione, can I ask you a question?” he asked, taking a seat across from her.

Hermione had to stretch her neck to look at him over the heavy volumes. “Harry.” She blinked at him, before glancing longingly down at what seemed to be a three-foot essay she was writing on Ancient Runes. Then, he quickly had her attention again. “Of course you can. What is it?” 

“Well, it’s about the potion we were making today...” Harry took the liberty of arranging the books on the table in such a way that they didn’t block his view of Hermione. From the way her lips thinned a little he guessed he’d probably just messed up her study plan or something, however she didn’t say anything. “The, er, the Scintillation Solution. See, I was wondering about something you said in class. Something about the ground beetles. How they’re so important and all...”

“Well, they’re certainly a volatile ingredient,” Hermione said, looking stunned he was actually asking her something class-related.

Harry was a little offended – he did take active interest in his studies, from time to time. “Yeah, so?”

“Well, that’s what makes them dangerous to the brewer – the unpredictability and the ability to change the potion’s properties with the slightest alteration. Ground beetles can also be explosive in combination with some other ingredients.”

“Right, right.” He reached out to fiddle with a corner of Hermione’s parchment. “And, say, Hermione, could those beetles have any effect on, erm, a potential brewer before being added to a potion?”

“Well, whole beetles aren’t known to have any magical properties outside of potion making. However, freshly ground beetles emit fumes – that’s why one should work swiftly when grinding the beetles.”

“Fumes?” he repeated.

At that, Hermione looked scandalised. “Yes, Harry, the fumes from the ground beetles! It’s third year knowledge!”

Harry vaguely remembered Hermione talking about these fumes in last class, but he couldn’t recall anything specific.

“Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” she sighed. “The fumes aren’t very toxic, but inhaling them can cause mild nausea and confused perception. It also lowers your inhibitions, similar to alcohol. Thankfully, it’s not very dangerous, and the effects are short-lasting – but a confused state of mind _might_ inspire the victim to feel, or do things they normally wouldn’t.” She looked at him piercingly. “Harry, why –“

“So, er, how can you tell someone has inhaled the fumes?” Harry asked quickly.

“Well... For one, a person under the influence of the fumes will be able to smell the vapours, which are odourless to other, unaffected people. The smell is said to be rather foul. Other than that, you can tell by observation – the higher the level of intoxication, the more bizarre the behaviour of the victim. Of course, the effects may vary depending on a person... Harry, why don’t you stop pretending to read my essay, and tell me what’s wrong?”

Harry snapped his head up. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. “No, honestly, Hermione, it’s nothing. Look, I was just curious, because... ‘cause, you know, Ernie Macmillan said something about smelling something bad when he was grinding the beetles. And then he, erm, started acting kind of weird. Saying weird things and such... Completely barmy, if you ask me. So, yeah, I just wondered.”

There it was – fumes from the ground beetles. He knew there was a reason he had acted like a complete nutcase back with Malfoy.

“If you say so,” said Hermione, looking doubtful and a bit concerned.

“Yeah. It’s no big deal, anyway.” He grinned at her. “Thanks, though, Hermione – that was exactly what I wanted to hear.”

 

As Harry’s first class on Tuesday was at midday, straight after breakfast he returned to the Gryffindor common room. Ron (whose timetable was the same as Harry’s) and Hermione had a free period as well.

The three of them eased into the common room which was predictably bustling with activity. They settled into a free couch by the windows, where the sun shone brightly and warmed the seats.

Ron sighed contentedly, sprawled between Harry and Hermione. “This is great. Have I mentioned I love Tuesdays this year?”

“Once or twice,” answered Hermione. “Budge up, Ron – you’re taking up too much space.”

“No classes until one o’clock,” Ron said after he arranged himself to Hermione’s liking. “And then it’s only Herbology. Easy.”

“Have you finished your Herbology homework yet?” asked Hermione with a pointed look.

“You’re the devil, Hermione. I was having a jolly good time not remembering.”

“Stop sulking and I might check it for you when you’re done,” she said sternly, but kissed his cheek.

“Oh, you two are being just sickeningly sweet,” gibed Parvati Patil, as she and Demelza Robins came over to lean against the windowsill. “How do you stand it, Harry? My teeth hurt from sugar overload.”

“Comes with practice, trust me,” replied Harry. “I still need to vomit in the dorms every now and then, though.”

“Hardy har har, you two,” said Hermione, pink-cheeked, while Ron looked smug. “It’s not like we were doing anything indecent... Oh, shut up, Ron, go back to writing your essay.”

Parvati glanced at Demelza, presumably to share a smile, only to find Demelza sullenly staring out the window instead. In fact, that was what Demelza had been doing from the moment she appeared – staring out the window. Parvati rolled her eyes. “You won’t find it there,” she said, nudging her.

Startled, Demelza blinked and looked away. “Oh, be quiet.”

“Why, worried your vampire will hear me?” said Parvati in a teasing tone.

Demelza blushed. “Sure, go ahead and laugh it up,” she grumbled. “We’ll see who will be laughing when it starts biting people.”

Turning to Harry, Hermione, and Ron, Parvati explained, “Demelza is convinced she saw a vampire flying above the Forbidden Forest yesterday.”

“Vampires can’t fly. They don’t have wings,” asserted Hermione.

“Well, this one had wings,” insisted Demelza. “Bright, leathery wings, like a bat’s – they shined in the moonlight. Scary.” She shuddered, and Parvati rolled her eyes again.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a Wyvern?” Harry asked in a sudden moment of clarity. “You know, the –”

“White, ugly beasts Hagrid started to keep around this year?” Demelza interrupted with a glare. “Yes, I’m sure it was not one of those. It looked like a human, only with wings. It must have been a vampire.”

“Vampires _don’t_ have –”

“Well, Hermione, what else could it have been then?” asked Demelza. “Surely you must know, since apparently you have answers to everything!”

“If you really want to know, I think it was a figment of your imagination.”

“I didn’t imagine it –”

“Did anyone beside you see this vampire, Demelza?” Harry asked quickly to forestall an argument.

“Well... No, because I was alone out on the Quidditch pitch. It was after curfew.” Ignoring Hermione’s exclamation about violation of school rules, Demelza continued, “The house-elves were asleep, so I was the only one in the area. I still go sometimes to fly, even if the pitch is devastated... Anyway, it was dark, like I said, and I was alone, eighty feet in the air. I was practising barrel rolls, when something shifted and caught my attention. It was him...“

“So it’s a he now,” muttered Hermione.

Demelza ignored her. “He was some distance away, so if it weren’t for the moon shining brightly, I probably wouldn’t be able to see him at all. He was soaring in circles above the Forbidden Forest, with the moonlight reflecting in his dark wings. I think he was hunting,” she added in a whisper.

“Well, did you see his face?” Ron asked sceptically.

“Of course not.” Demelza scowled. “My eyesight isn’t that good. But I think it was a man. A male vampire.”

“So, what did you do when you saw this vampire?”

“I... I left,” Demelza said, flushing when Ron coughed. “Well, what else could I have done? I was scared. It could have seen me and gone after me – it could have bitten me!”

“It can’t have been a vampire, Demelza,” Hermione said patiently. “Vampires can’t fly, and they certainly don’t have wings.”

“Well, it _was_ something,” said Demelza. “I didn’t imagine it. Whatever it is, there is a flying, humanoid creature somewhere out on the school grounds.”

“I don’t know,” mused Ron. “A great, flying, bat-like beast... Kinda sounds like Snape came back from the dead. Only, you know – sporting wings.”

“Well, there’s an idea,” snickered Parvati.

“Don’t even joke like that.” Demelza frowned. “Though I always did say there was something odd about Snape.”

 

In view of the past rainy weekend and cold Monday, it was a wonder how sunny Tuesday turned out to be at one o’clock. As Harry was walking towards the Herbology greenhouses, Ron and Hermione at his sides, he could see Malfoy in the distance doing manual work. He was mucking out the stables without the use of his wand, while a small herd of Aethonans – winged horses Hagrid taught about in fourth year – grazed nearby.

Harry thought Malfoy resembled a Muggle farmer – he had shed his school robes, and the sleeves of his stained, white shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Even from the distance, the cords in his forearms flexed visibly as he dug the pitchfork in and out of the hay.

Even though Harry was aware of Malfoy’s new responsibilities as a caretaker, seeing him do manual labour was still mind-boggling. He couldn’t help but stare.

Following Harry’s line of sight, Ron smiled with satisfaction. “Blessing to my eyes – Malfoy dirtying his ferrety paws.”

Harry averted his gaze and quickened his pace. “Let’s hurry up. Seems like everyone’s already there.”

They made it to Herbology in the nick of time. Professor Sprout, who was standing by the greenhouse entrance, beckoned to them with a gloved hand. “Barely in time, you three,” she said to them. “Now, everybody come closer. Come over, and take a look at the subject of our lesson today.”

The students crowded around her, pushing and jostling; surprisingly many eighth years had decided to take N.E.W.T.-level Herbology. Somehow, as Harry, Hermione, and Ron managed to get a spot at the front, they gained a good view of the plant they were to study during the next couple of lessons.

And it was quite a peculiar view. On the ground, in front of the now crouching Professor Sprout, was what Harry could only describe as a large cabbage with a sharp-teethed mouth and branches for arms, in a pot. It was the size of a bristling porcupine – he knew, because they had covered porcupines in Care of Magical Creatures in fifth year. As Professor Sprout proceeded to tell them, the plant was a gnawplant and wasn’t dangerous if one knew how to deal with its treacherous jaws.

“In the wild, they’ll generally feed on any plant they can find. Our gnawplants, however, have been conditioned to only feed on the Common Wartizome. You should remember from sixth year that Wartizome is a plant whose juices have healing properties, particularly useful when dealing with various stomach aches and nausea symptoms. Since Madam Pomfrey mentioned her supplies of Wartizome are in need of expanding, today we will be extracting the Wartizome juice from the tongues of the gnawplants.” Professor Sprout clapped her hands briskly. “Now, everyone, get into pairs, and back to your workstations. Remember, only one pot with a gnawplant per pair. At the end of the lesson, I want each of you to have detailed notes with your observations!”  

As usual in Herbology, Ron teamed up with Hermione, which meant Harry was left to find his own partner. It was in moments like this, when it became clear Hermione and Ron were a twosome, that he just a little bit begrudged their relationship. He resented it when they bickered, or flirted, or snogged, and in the process completely forgot about Harry. Above all, though, he hated how selfish and needy it led him to feel.

For a while, as Hermione and Ron argued about which worktable they should choose, Harry stood there, looking about himself passively.

“Seems like we’re the only ones left,” a voice said behind him. Turning his head, Harry saw Theodore Nott.

“Oh, erm,” He took a quick look around again. Indeed, it appeared that everyone else had already partnered up. “Yeah, seems like.”

Noticing the unusual newcomer, Hermione stopped lecturing Ron, and said primly, “Hello, Theodore.”

“Yeah, hey, Granger. So, Potter, do you want to get some spot a bit farther away from Sprout or...?”

Harry eyed all the free worktables nearby. Walking over to one, he gestured with his hand. “How about we just move over here? There’s plenty of room.”

“Well... why not,” replied Nott, though he looked a bit reluctant. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Be right back, I’ll just bring my things.” He walked away.

“Tough, mate,” Ron said to Harry in a sympathetic tone, nodding at Nott’s diminishing figure. “Just your luck to end up with a Slytherin.”

“Stop it, Ron,” admonished Hermione. “You’ve never even spoken to Theodore once, so don’t assume things about him. Now do something useful and go fetch us a gnawplant.”

A minute or two later, Nott returned. He was not only carrying a schoolbag on his shoulder, but also a pot with a gnawplant in his hands.

“I grabbed our plant on my way back,” he said, as he deposited the plant on the long worktable in front of them.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Harry, a bit guiltily, realising he’d been pretty much lazing about so far. “So, how do we do this? You keep its jaws open, while I extract the juice?”

Nott shrugged. “That should work.” He was already pulling on his thick, dragon-hide gloves to ensure the gnawplant’s teeth wouldn’t harm him during the task.

They spent the next ten minutes working in silence, with the gnawplant practically bending itself backwards to bite off their fingers. It was only their protective gloves that were preventing the plant from succeeding. Whilst the task wasn’t very pleasant to begin with, the sultry air in the greenhouse was making it even less so.

As Nott struggled to keep the gnawplant’s jaws open, Harry forcibly drew the purple tongue out of its mouth. Gripping the tongue in both hands, like Professor Sprout had instructed them to do, he twisted it around so the Wartizome juice could be squeezed out, down into the bucket he had placed on the ground. He held it for a few seconds, but then had to let go quickly when the gnawplant jerked out of Nott’s grasp.

“Argh! Damn it,” Harry cursed, having nearly knocked the bucket over. He steadied it, and lifted his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead.

A few rows away, Professor Sprout was showing a pair of Ravenclaws how to hold the plant without hurting its ears. Harry hadn’t even noticed the thing had ears.

“You alright?” Nott asked. “Shall we try again?”

Harry sighed. “Sure.”

They resumed their positions, with Harry in front of the gnawplant, and Nott behind it.

“So, er,” Harry began. “Your mate Malfoy’s sure been keeping himself busy of late.”

Nott trained dark, bagged eyes on him, his eyebrow wrinkled at the non sequitur.

Cursing himself inwardly for bringing up Malfoy, Harry stupidly went on, “I mean, I reckon he must be rather busy. Like, can’t-find-the-time-to-show-up-in-class-half-the-time busy. Wonder what that’s all about.”

“Hmm...”  

“I mean, he must really hate going to class if he’d rather muck out and such. He was mucking out today. Not like I care, mind. Just...”

Nott simply stared at him. Realising it was time to shut up, Harry finally did just that. Why _had_ he even brought up Malfoy? He didn’t even care.

They didn’t speak for a longer while, focusing on the gnawplant and their task. Harry noted that the more Wartizome juice he wrung out, the less purple and more green the tongue was becoming. At the next moment of respite, he jotted it down on his largely empty piece of parchment.

“I wouldn’t know what’s going on in Malfoy’s head, Potter,” Nott said then. “If you want to know, you should probably ask him yourself.”

“Yeah,” muttered Harry, managing not to roll his eyes. “Not bloody likely,” he added under his nose.

At the end of the lesson, their bucket with Wartizome juice was half full, which was a decent amount, compared to the rest of their classmates. Once everyone put their plants back to their original place on a stand near the greenhouse entrance, Professor Sprout disclosed they wouldn’t be done covering gnawplants until the next three classes. To make matters worse, she then stated that by the fourth class, each pair would be expected to hand in a full report on the plant’s behaviour.

Harry recalled the times he’d thought Herbology was an easy subject, and groaned.

 

Draco was lying on his back, arms outstretched at his sides, and observed the clouds.

It was a quiet day. The wind had evened out. Birds were trilling. Some crows were cawing in the distance, trying to get at the rat carcasses Hagrid was storing by his hut. Draco should have gone to chase the birds away, but he chose to linger.

As classes had started a while earlier, no students were milling about, and no teachers were telling him which menial task needed his attention next. After nearly two hours of mucking out, Draco didn’t quite feel up to anything else. He could still smell the manure on himself. He wondered at what had become of his life.

Shifting on the stack of fresh hay, Draco looked at the Aethonans grazing in a paddock. It wasn’t a very large area of land – if not for the fact that it was magically revitalised every other day, Draco guessed the paddock would be bare within a fortnight. Propping himself on an elbow, he glanced at the castle of Hogwarts. Perhaps he should lead the horses into the stables now, before the class ended. The students, girls in particular, got it in their heads sometimes that stroking wings or feeding snacks to the Aethonans was a good idea. As Draco was the one who had to clean the mess up later, he wasn’t going to let that happen again. And he didn’t particularly want to be held responsible for any disfigurations, either.

Getting to his feet, he patted himself clean of hay straws. His work boots were lying halfway from the stable where he’d tossed them, but they were filthy and reeking, so Draco stepped over them, barefooted, as he went. He stopped by the entrance of the stable, where he’d left his leather shoes. He put them on, and then headed for the paddock. He would place the work boots near Hagrid’s hut later, so that Hagrid could magic them clean.

One by one, he steered the Aethonans to the stable and changed their water, before coming back to his stack of hay. He picked up his robes, which were lying in a pile on the ground, and shook them a few times, getting rid of the dirt. As he put the robes on, Draco extracted his wand from his sleeve. It was a piece of black wood, simple-looking and Ministry-issued. Foreign, Draco couldn’t help but think. While he was wary of using the wand since every spell he cast with it was reported to the Ministry, he decided to indulge himself this time.

“ _Apstergeo_ ,” he said, siphoning the grime and smell off of himself. Surely the Ministry wouldn’t find anything suspicious about him using a cleaning charm. He slid the wand back into his sleeve.

He didn’t use a wand much, anymore. Not only was it monitored, the range of spells he was allowed to cast was limited, too. And then, there was his favourite – the three-spells-a-day-only rule. Draco wasn’t sure what would happen if he used the wand four times in one day, or if it was even possible, but he wasn’t eager to try it. He was usually careful to have one spell left at the end of the day, just in case.

Distant sounds of laughter and conversation alerted him to the fact that class was over. Students were pouring out of the castle, onto the sunlit grounds.

People were emerging from the greenhouses, too. His year-mates. Draco watched Potter’s black mop of hair moving among the small throng of students, before he realised an oddity – for walking alongside Potter was Theo Nott.

Nott said something to Potter and looked at him, expectant. Potter shrugged his shoulders, mumbling something in response. For lack of anything better to do, Draco continued to observe them.

For all the 400 feet that separated him from the place Potter and Nott were, Draco could discern the movements of their mouths without a problem. He’d noticed a while earlier that his eyesight had begun to improve. Still, he decided not to read into it – sometimes, things just happened in the magical world, and they had no evident explanation.

Draco was no lip reader, though, which had never pissed him off as much as in that moment.

Still in conversation, Potter and Nott came to a stop. Uncharacteristically, it was Nott who was doing most of the talking, while Potter nodded and shrugged at intervals. That went on until Granger interrupted them. Her voice wasn’t very loud, but Draco clearly heard her call, “Harry, are you coming?”

Potter said a few words to Nott, and then trotted after Granger and Weasley like an obedient puppy. From what Draco could see, they were heading for Hagrid’s hut. However, he’d already lost interest in Potter’s plans.

Nott was walking towards the castle now, and Draco made a beeline for him, suspicion churning in his gut. Other Slytherins had almost never approached Potter on their own. Potter was Draco’s business, after all, and Draco liked it that way. Nott may have been Draco’s friend of sorts, but he’d stepped out of line.

By the time Nott noticed him, they were both in the courtyard, in front of the entrance doors.

Draco didn’t waste time in asking, “What were you doing with Potter?”

“Oh, hello to you too, Malfoy,” said Nott. “Yes, I’m doing quite fine, how about you?”

“Well?” Draco said, tapping his foot.

There was a groan. “Merlin’s sake, what is it with you two? What did you think I was doing with Potter?”

Draco only waited, arms crossed.

Nott rolled his eyes. “Nothing. We’re doing a project together. Alright?” He made as if to walk away.

Grabbing him by the arm, Draco turned him back to himself, before letting go. “You’re doing a project together,” he repeated, ignoring Nott’s affronted expression.

“Yeah. Herbology, you see.” Then, “Mate, you need to lay off a bit. You’re obsessed with Potter, you’ve always been. I thought you got past it this year, but you’re just starting all over again!”

Draco was losing his patience. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I’m not obsessed.” He looked to the side, as Nott stared at him. “Fuck, just... Stay away from him, okay?”

Nott lifted a hand to rub his forehead. “Seriously... Why do you even care? It’s not like I’m trying to become his best mate or anything. We’re only doing a project together.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. And even assuming I were trying to become Potter’s mate, then so what? The war is over, Draco. Get over it.”

Nott become Potter’s mate? Something in Draco’s stomach twisted unpleasantly at the thought, and his temper flared. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

“About what? My befriending Potter, or the war being over?” He sighed. “Never mind. You can still live in the past if you want, but don’t drag me with you. I will do as I like.”

Having said that, Nott turned around and walked into the castle, leaving Draco to quietly seethe.

He knew he should have expected that response, though. Nott had never liked Draco ordering him around, and, despite numerous attempts on Draco’s part to change it, he had never been a member of Draco’s clique. As far as he knew, Nott was too much of a loner to join groups.

Annoyed, Draco made his way back to the stable. A few years back, he would have amounted the word _loner_ to _loser_ , but now he thought he wasn’t exactly one to talk. He was an anathema to nearly everyone at Hogwarts, not that he’d made an effort to seek their favour.

The rest of the day passed as usual, which meant uneventfully and boringly. Draco went into minimal contact with his peers, and he made an effort to attend his last class of the day, Arithmancy. It was rather a moot point, though, seeing as he’d missed the two previous lectures which turned out essential to understand the topic. He chewed on his tongue as the Professor berated him in front of the class for treating her subject lightly; the last thing he needed was Slughorn threatening him with Azkaban again for talking back to a teacher.

Following Arithmancy was dinner, and afterwards, he had a break. That, in Draco’s experience, meant boredom. He went down to the edge of the forest, to check up on Tenebrus the Thestral with a broken leg. While the break seemed to be healing well, Tenebrus was old, and it wouldn’t be long before he died. Draco was a little regretful about that – he felt a sense of camaraderie with the creature who had become a pariah among his younger, healthier kindred members.

In the evening, he was made to feed the Crups, fertilise the carrots, clean the arrows Hagrid used for hunting, and bring a batch of Murtlap essence to Pomfrey.

By the time he left the hospital wing, it was an hour past his curfew. Draco didn’t let that bother him – as he had been performing his duties, he would be excused.

Well on his way to the Slytherin common room, his heartbeat picked up. He spotted a person he least expected to meet in the dungeons.

Harry Potter was coming from the other end of the corridor.

Normally, they would have ignored one another. Potter would have turned his head away, pretending not to see him, and Draco would do the same. They would have passed each other without a word.

But not this time.

“Well, isn’t this unusual,” Draco said, obviously taking Potter aback. “You seem to have lost your dogs somewhere on the way, Potter. What are you doing here alone?”

Potter looked rather cross now. “What dogs, Malfoy?” He huffed. “And it’s not any of your business, anyway. I’m leaving.” And he made to do just that.

What was it with people walking out on him today? Grinding his teeth, Draco extended his arm, blocking Potter’s way.

“It’s after curfew and you’re in the Slytherin dungeons – that makes it my business. What do you want here?” 

Potter glared at him. “Oh, piss off, I wasn’t snooping around your precious dungeons. I’m just passing by. Let me through, you wanker.”

Potter apparently thought if he just barged against Draco’s arm, he would get through. Draco caught him across the shoulders and pushed him backwards.

Potter looked like he was about to breath fire. His hand went to a pocket in his robes, where Draco knew was his wand.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Draco said. “Slughorn’s office is just around the corner.”

Luckily for him, Potter dropped his hand. He was scowling. “Funny you should mention Slughorn. If you don’t stop being a giant git, I’ll tell him about the ingredients you stole from his supply yesterday. How’s that?”

Draco whistled. “Potter, you surprise me – that piece of blackmail was almost Slytherin of you.” When Potter just looked at him balefully, he chose a different route. “I would’ve thought you were too busy making eyes at me to remember anything else, anyway.”

Instantly, Potter’s cheeks reddened as he looked away. “Sod off, I wasn’t making any eyes. I was high, Malfoy.”

“Yeah, I told you that,” Draco pointed out.

“Great, then you know I wouldn’t normally act that way. Around you, I mean. I was delirious! Those sodding fumes messed with my head!”

If that was how Potter believed the fumes from ground beetles affected a person, Draco resented the fact that Potter was still allowed in Advanced Potions. He was quite sure Potter had consulted Mudblood Granger on the matter, though, so either Granger gave him wrong information, or Potter misunderstood her meaning. In actuality, inhaling the fumes had an effect similar to knocking back a whisky. It was practically liquid courage.

“What?” Potter said. “What’re you smirking for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Draco. “How’s your head now, Potter?”

“I’d’ve pushed you away,” Potter insisted, looking up at him with baleful eyes. “It was your fault anyway, coming on to me like that. You were sober!”

Draco choked a bit. “I wasn’t coming on to you.”

“Odd how it seemed that way, then. You were pretty eager to get close to me.”

“You’re a joke, Potter. You goaded me into getting close to you, and you know it.”

“Oh, yeah? Am I goading you now? Because you’re getting close again.”

Potter was right, of course. Draco had come right into Potter’s personal space, while Potter hadn’t moved an inch. “Maybe you are,” he said. He certainly felt goaded. He’d never felt this need for proximity during their face-offs before.

“Back off, Malfoy.”

“Or what?” Had Potter always been such a runt? If Draco had noticed earlier, he would have used his height advantage more often. “What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll make you back off with magic, and I won’t care if Slughorn hears. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you don’t use your wand much. Or that it’s not even your own wand.”

In the time Draco was taking to answer, footsteps very quietly sounded from behind him. Feeling his heart hitch, Draco took a hasty step back from Potter. He cursed himself. What was he doing, getting into a scuffle in a public hallway? He couldn’t afford this, and especially not with Saint Potter.

“Well, what is going on here, boys?” The person came into the torch light, and it was the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Adalger Bones. “Mr Malfoy, it is long past your curfew. I imagine the Ministry would not be too happy to hear about this, do you?”

“Madam Pomfrey held me up, sir,” Draco said. “I was just heading to my common room.”

Bones was a stout man, easily over fifty years of age, with a greying beard and an annoying, condescending attitude. “Oh, indeed... And I assume Mr Potter here held you up, as well?”

Draco held his tongue. While he didn’t take Defense anymore, he’d encountered Bones enough times to realise the man had some sort of grudge against him. Well, he could as well queue up. So many people held a grudge against Draco he’d long since lost the count.

“It’s okay, Professor,” Potter uttered, his expression at odds with the statement. “We were just passing by each other.”

Bones took his gaze of Draco to look at Potter. “Well. If you are quite sure.” He dug into his layered set of robes to extract a watch. “Nine thirty-one. I’m afraid I have to dock fifteen points from Slytherin and Gryffindor each, as you, Mr Potter, appear to have broken curfew, also.”

“By only one minute!” Potter protested.

“And another ten before you reach your common room,” said Bones, snapping the flap of the watch closed. “Now, it would behove you both to retire into your respective dorms. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, these are just getting longer and longer. Over 6000 words! I hope this chapter's length at least somewhat makes up for the time it's taken me to write it.   
> I originally planned for this story to be told only from Harry’s P.O.V, but without relaying Draco’s side of things, lots of important stuff would have to go unsaid. So now we'll be getting both Harry's and Draco's view points. Yay! With this alteration, things will become darker, there'll be more drama, more confusion, and more Drarry.  
> The plot thickens...


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